The Phoenix's Griffin

The riders were pelting for the border. He stood in awe the speed they ran their horses in the moonlit darkness, the ground littered with rocks; someone was going to suffer a nasty spill! They zigzagged their mounts, ducking arrows, turning in their saddles to send back their own. Blue-gray cloaks trailed behind them, turning, folding, billowing, and obscuring them.

He ran to the edge of the river. Here the water ran shallowly over solid bedrock. He notched an arrow, but their defensive tactics put them between him and their pursuers. He loosed, two, three arrows in the space between horse and rider. Then he heard something that he could not credit. They were laughing. They were the Morrigan Galadrial had bid him to meet, of whom he had long heard many rumours and stories, had seen once, and they were laughing at their hunters. They called to each other across the plain. They seemed to beckon to the snarling orc.

Feet from the river, three of the women leapt down from their horses, the forth crossing, turning to fire arrows not far fwherwhere he stood. Plucking arrows from their quivers they set up a barrage that sent the orcs that had been chasing them, to heel.

They stopped and stood watching the survivors scrambling away. One sent a final arrow flying into the silver blue night, and her effort was met with a squeal then silence. They tucked their bows away in the loop beside their quiver, drew their swords and walked into the field.

Haldir turned to the elf on the horse beside him. She smiled eyes bright, face flushed with excitement and put her own bow away. Arching to tuck the bow away Haldir saw, much to his surprise, that she was a pregnant. A memory flashed behind his eyes. He walked toward her as she carefully dismounted. Taking a deep breath, she put her hands to the small of her back and stretched.

“Well met,” she brushed a loose strand of golden hair from her eyes, “Well met indeed! I am Anacalimën.”
Haldir inclined his head, right hand going to the center of his chest then sweeping out, “Haldir, the Warden of this border, I was told to watch for you tonight.”

They turned and watched as her companions’ shadows moving among the bodies of orcs, dispatching any who were not dead.

“Thank the Valar for you Haldir, they’ve been chasing us since the sun set,” she explained, narrowing her eyes, “Our horses are all but played out.”

Their horses!? He must have stared like a fool.

A little bloodied the trio waded across the river.

“Haldir,” Anacalimën turned to him, and held her hand out to the trio, “May I present Sairalindë,” Sairalindë inclined her head slightly, “Lessien,” She inclined her head slightly as well.

The third had walked by calling her mount to her, “Zara! Jön! Zara!” The horse came obediently and the elf examined it carefully.

Can it be she?

“Is she alright?” Sairalindë called.
“Yes,” the elf answered examining the far side of the horse. She released the horse, dusted her hands together, and walked toward Haldir, smiling slightly.
“I apologize for our entourage,” she waved toward the orc bodies.

Yes it is.

“Haldir, this is Phaila.”

He inclined hiad, ad, and made the gesture of greeting, his heart thumping happily as if encountering an old friend he had not seen for three hundred years instead of this stranger.

She paused slightly, almost impercievably, touched her fingers to the center of her own breast and tipped her chin down, eyes on his. Instead of the larger sweeping gesture, she rolled her wrist, palm up. It was almost…condescending.

He blinked and flushed with insult. She smiled slightly, held his eyes.

What?

“I’m afraid we to need to rest before we travel on to Caras Galadhon.” Phaila said finally, “As you can plainly see, Anacalimën is not in the best of conditions and we have been riding hard.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my condition,” Anacalimën protested archly.
“Nothing four months will not cure,” Phaila turned away.
“Of course,” Haldir nodded, “I’ll build a fire.”
“Is that wise?” Sairalindë asked, looking across the river.
“They know where we are if we have a fire or not, I say fire.” Lessien settled the discussion.
“They will not be back.” Phaila said definitively. That slight smile curved her lips, eyes held a look that said she wished they would.

The quartet unsaddled their horses, removed the bridles. Freed the horses melted into the darkness. Haldir came back with an armload of wood, and twigs for kindling.

As Haldir coaxed a flame, Phaila crouched closely beside him, looked at him. Her eyes were intent on his, green. Hazel.

She waited a long moment giving him the weight of her stare. Haldir stared a little hostilely back, still bristling with insult.

She held an arrow up in her gloved hand; the fletching was white.

“Yours?” She asked knowing the answer.
“Yes.”
“It was stuck in my saddle.”

Haldir’s eyes widened, he thought he had accounted for every arrow, they had been moving quickly, changing direction unpredictably.

“I am sorry.” He was embarrassed.
“Don’t be, it was stuck in my saddle, not me.” She smiled and rose to her feet, looking down her long, lean legs at him, and tapped the arrow against her booted leg. She had been teasing him all along.

She looked to her companions.

Saddle; she pronounced it sadull, and it charmed him.

“Anacalimën,” Lessien called, “Do you want tea?”
“Oh, pl, please,” Anacalimën sat on her blanket with a moan, “I can’t feel my legs.”
“None of us can.” Lessien replied.
“Make enough for all of us. I daresay I’m so hungry I could eat my saddle!” Sairalindë said shaking out a blanket.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Anacalimën laughed, “we could’ve cut one of saddles up and made a stew!”
“Yes, but whose saddle?” Lessien asked as she pulled a small pot from one of her leather bags.
“Not mine.” Sairalindë shook her head.
“We can eat mine, I don’t care if I ever sit in it again.” Anacalimën moaned and stretched her back again.
“You will care very much if you have to ride bareback.” Phaila answered and walked to her kits.
“Oh, I would rather walk,” Anacalimën opened her own leather bag.
“Anacalimën,” Phaila said softly and tossed her a pear.

Phaila walked back to the fire, standing opposite Haldir.

“A pear?! You had something to eat all the time!” Lessien looked playfully aghast.

Phaila made no answer, but watched Haldir who was adding more wood to the fire.

“Haldir?” Lessien looked at him across the fire, “Would you like some tea?”
“Make enough for all of us, means all…of…us.” Phaila enunciated tapping Lessien on the head with Haldir’s arrow.
“Thank you.” He answered smiling. “I have lambas,” he offered and reached for the small bag tied on his belt.

Each took a small piece.

“Phaila?” he said her name; it was strange to have said it aloud. He had only heard it echoed in his mind and never in his voice.

She looked at the bread in his strong, long fingered hand, smiled slightly, “Oh.” She made a slight face, “no thank you.” She declined and bent to her saddle, untying the bedroll.

“Off to wash in the river.” Anacalimën rose from the blanket, her hands full of a towel and bar of soup
“Wait for me.” Sairalindë called.

“Will she be alright?” Haldir motioned to Anacalimën, glancing at Phaila; he had a difficult time looking her in the face.
“Oh, I think so.” Phaila watched her walk away, “After seeing your Lady we’ve only to get her to Mirkwood, where her husband waits.”
“I didn’t know that Morrigan permitted service during pregnancy?” he asked the question honestly; he knew nothing of the Morrigan.
“She has not been in service, only visiting family, but to answer your question Morrigan serve to the forth month. Once the babe is born she won’t serve again until the child is two years.”

Haldir watched the beautiful expectant mother walking away, “It must be very difficult to leave a husband and child behind.”
“As hard as it would be to leave a wife and child.” Phaila smiled.
“I wouldn’t .”
.”
“Nor I.” She answered busy unclasping her brooch and pulled the cloak from her shoulders.

Haldir’s heart sank. Then Amaras was dead and she had lost the babe. Was her bondage as Morrigan so strong as to keep her from the natural inclination of elves to grieve to death? He sat inwardly saddened for her. They had been a happy pair and seemed much suited to one another.

She snapped the cloak, loosing a cloud of dust over Haldir and herself. Haldir shielded his eyes.

“Oh! Sorry!” Phaila laughed, “I’m sorry.” She kept laughing, not sounding the least bit sorry, as he rose to his feet, dusting himself, “I didn’t realise how much of the road I was carrying.”
“A good portion it seems.”
“This is not seems, this is proof,” she brushed the dust from his arm, “No wonder my horse was so slow.” She plucked a blade of grass from his hair, “A forest too!” She smiled holding it up.

“Causing problems again?” Lessien asked taking the pot from the fire, dropped a small cotton bag into the boiling water and set it aside to steep.
“We have only met, how can it be again?”

Haldir knelt besieged with waves of guilt that lapped over him, rolled away only to return. *No, we have not met, but I remember you, your husband and your lost babe, and I have thought on you since.*

“Sorry.” to Phaila, and “Give her time.” Lessien warned him.
“I’ll go wash so you can discuss me better.” Phaila pulled her tunic over her heaHer Her undershirt lifted catching the tunic and Haldir was gifted with a glimpse of her taught abdomen; golden before the shirt dropped. She tossed it on her own blanket. She picked up her kit, slung it over her shoulder, and stuck a dagger in her boot top.

Haldir reached for the arrow she had lain down, but she snatched it up, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Noooo, it was yours, now it is mine,” she wagged the arrow at him, and walked away with an exaggerated sway, swinging the arrow back and forth behind her as she did so.

“Here.” Lessien laughing and handed Haldir a cup of hot tea.
“Thank you,” He smiled and blew on the liquid, “You’ve been long together?”
“Oh ages.” Lessien smiled, “Actually, it’s been a time since we’ve seen each other, Anacalimën asked if we would ride with her, so, here we all are.”

Anacalimën and Sairalindë faces washed, hair re-braided joined Haldir and Lessien at the fire, Lessien handing everyone a cup of tea.

Haldir sat among the Morrigan and listened to their easy banter rounding the fire. Anacalimën finished her tea, excused herself with a yawn, stretched out on her blanket. Sairalindë retired next.

Haldir looked toward the river, “Don’t worry, Phaila’s taking a bath, if there’s water by camp, she’s in it like a seal.” Lessien smiled and stood.

He remembered, protective Amaras holding the blanket, shielding her, so she could undress, and holding it for her again when she emerged steaming from the cold river; not servant, but possessive and proud husband. Gone and left her on her own. Haldir hoped, prayed Amaras died quickly and did not linger thinking on his wife and unborn child.

“Good night Haldir.” Lessien sat on her own bed.
“Good night, Lessien,” he smiled and watched as she drew the blanket up and laid back.

Phaila returned with wet hair twisted into the long, single braid they wore, face pink and clean, smelling of sweet nds.nds.

She looked at the other Morrigan who were sleeping soundly, and Haldir smiling, holding the cup of tea in his hand. She held her hands up surprised that everyone was down, leaving her on her own with this March Warden.

She dropped her kit beside her blankend tnd then pulled the dagger from her boot, dropped it to stick in the ground. She poured herself tea. Haldir began to stand but her hand came down on his shoulder, keeping him seated as she bent refilled his cup. She sat down on the soft gray wool blanket, and gave a heavy sigh; rolled her head back stretching taught muscles. Haldir’s eye caught the mark high on her neck, behind her left ear. A small arrow, the mark of a Morrigan. It was mark of magic, a mark of extraordinary power, a mark of service. They were warriors (assassins it was hinted at darkly), advisers, mediators and the incorruptible messengers of Kings.

After having spent the night watching Amaras and Phaila, he had gleaned as much information about the Morrigan as he could, and sitting here among them found the majority of what he heard was false. Should they not be burdened with the secrets they carried? Act more solemn? Who, tho, could see into the corners of their hearts and look upon what they had witnessed, heard and done? They were sweet, and funny and obviously easy around strangers, no doubt from constant time among them. Perhaps a part of their magic was release from any guilt. A reward and protection for their sacrifices.

She leaned against her saddle (sadull) and sipping her tea looked through the fire into the darkness on the other side of the river.

“You needn’t watch over us,” she said softly, her voice tired with a raw edge to it from calling across the plain. Her accent had grown thicker with her fatigue, an accent that had haunted many dreams, “tho I know you will,” she set her tea aside and pulled up her blanket, “Goodnight Haldir.”
“Goodnight Phaila.” he smiled turning his face to her.

They slept the sleep of the exhausted, Anacalimën with her hand protectively cradling her belly and the life that grew there. Sairalindë and Lessien so fair to look on that one could weep. Phaila turned so the blanket pulled up high revealed nothing for observation.

He would have like to believe his presence that put them at such ease, but they needed him not. He found himself smiling completely and happily astonished that they were so pleasing.

His eyes roamed over their sleeping forms coming to rest on Phaila. He could not think of he singly; she seemed odd alone. Maimed almost.

He roused himself; went for more wood, walking far into the forest picking up fallen branches, twigs and he returned quietly. Sairalindë and Lessien had curled together in the cool air, the blanket pulled up to their chins. Anacalimën had turned on her side, and Phaila was standing on one leg, tugging a boot on, and then the other. She slung on her braces, buckled it under her breasts, and rolled her thumb under a shoulder strap, straightening it. She took up her quiver and bow, slung the strap over her head and right shoulder, tugged her braid free.

Phaila met his look. Her cheeks pinked as she drifted her eyes away, “Have you ever been so tired that you cannot sleep?”
“Never.” He smiled dusting his hands together, and stood.

She stood idly drawing the rope of her braid through her hand repeatedly, head tipped to the left and angled down, her eyes cast to some middle distance at nothing.

Haldir’s lips parted, she was clearly disturbed.

“Wh…” he began softly to ask her what ate at her.

She walked from the light of the fire, toward the river.

“Where are you going?” He asked mystified, cast his eyes into the dark and then back to her.
“No where,” she softly called back and vanished into the dark.

“She watches, Haldir,” Lessien spoke softly; lifting her head from the pallet, “Leave her.”


In the deep dark of pre-dawn, Phaila watched Haldir leave his position and walk softly into the forest. When the east horizon began to leach the dark from the sky, she came back into camp. The fire burned brightly Haldir having tended it well during the night. She went to her saddle, traded her bow and quiver for a water-skin and walked back to the river.

Rúmil and Orophin had caught his eye and motioned.

“The one who was here before? Is her husband with her?” Orophin craned his neck to look.
“No, he is not.”
“What are they doing here?” Rúmil asked.
“They are here to see, Lady Gal…She is walking the wood, we can talk of this later,” Haldir pulled himself from the conversation.

Orophin moved his head from side to side trying to get a better look through the branches and leaves of the trees that shielded them.
“She is come back,” he whispered. Haldir looked, motioned them to follow deeper into the wood and away.

She crouched on the bedrock; the water running around her booted feet and cupped her hand in the cold clearness brought it to her lips. It was sweet, and had a metal taste; she flinched away. For a moment, she thought it tasted of blood; they had all drunk that water…but no, it was just the tang of iron from some vein in the mountains the river ran through. Uncapping her water-skin, she held its mouth open as her eyes took in her surroundings, her mind far away.

“Wake up,” Lessien said flicking water into Phaila’s face, jerking her from her reverie.

Standing abruptly, she pursed her lips, and narrowed her eyes. She squirted Lessien in the face with the water-skin.spinsping at the coldness, Lessien wiped the water from her face and charged Phaila, who bolted with a delighted squeal.

She ran for their little camp and squirted sle sleeping Anacalimën and Sairalindë as she rounded their pallets, rousing them into shouts of surprise, then shouts of anger “Phaila! Damn it!”

This tumult brought Haldir, Orophin, Rúmil and five more guardians running to the edge of the wood notching arrows on the fly. All drew up short to find Phaila dodging Sairalindë and Lessien while squirting them with water. She laughed tauntingly, keeping them at bay with well-aimed shots from the skin, before turning to run for the river.

Lessien and Sairalindë gave chase while Anacalimën shook her head and rose to her feet, unbraiding her hair. Phaila splashed through the river with Lessien and Sairalindë in hot pursuit. She looped back across the river and circled Anacalimën closely.

Haldir motioned all to leave and obeying they disappeared into the woods.

“Carefully!” She shouted to Lessien and Sairalindë as she circled Anacalimën and turned for the wood.

Haldir watched them playing joyfully in the yellow sunrise, his lips curling in a smile.

Anacalimën using her bow tripped Phailho tho twisted as she fell, her braid a whip that almost cracked the air and crashed down on her left shoulder. He gasped; she had fallen hard!

Lessien and Sairalindë pounced. Lessien took Phaila by the ankles, Sairalindë grabbed her under the shoulders and together they lifted her. She laughed helpless to defend herself as they carried her to the edge of the river and swung her out into the deep water.

Phaila broke the surface and cried. “Traitor!” Then swam for the bank. She climbed out of the river; her shirt and leggings plastered to her body, her boots full of water.

Haldir stepped from the Golden Wood, smiling at the scene that had played its self out before him. They were not unlike a few friends he had shared duty with on the border when younger, and free of onerous responsibilities.

Phaila stood and watched him approach, his delight plain on his face. Oh, ‘they’ did not know what ‘they’ were talking about when ‘they’ had spoken of the cold-blooded Morrigan.

“Good morning, Haldir.” She said casually, boots squishing with every ste“Hav“Having an early morning swim, Phaila? Don’t you find the water a little cold?” He smiled at her absolute disregard for her soaked state.
“Ah, yes,” she looked down at herself. She laid her hand on her taught abdomen that her shirt stuck to, “but there was a little laundry to do. Two birds, Haldir, two birds.”

She put her fists on her hips, tilting her head at him, “Who were you with?”
He blinked, “My brothers, they only stopped along their way.”
“On their way?” She looked around, “On their way to where?” The tree line formed a narrow peninsula, a finger that jutted out. It was not a place one passed into when going elsewhere unseen in the wood.

He stood caught in his lie. Clenched his jaw and said nothing.

Phaila waved a wet hand in the air between them smiling, drops of water flying in her gesture, “It matters not, Sheriff, we are not shy, and it takes something else entirely to offend us.”

Sheriff. She had called him that before, in another life. Haldir smiled back into those great cats’ eyes.

“I have these,” he retrieved four apples from inside his cloak, apples he had taken from his brothers.
“Ah, now this will guarantee Anacalimën’s love.” She spoke softly, turned her shoulder against his to hide the exchange.

Their fingers twined in the exchange. Haldir flushed slightly watching her fingers splaying between the joints of his, spreading wide to hold all four apples in two handot aot as easy for her to do as he. She curled her full hands up, pressed the apples to bre breasts.

“She’s been craving apples.” Smiling conspiratorially, their eyes locked for a moment before she turned and walked toward her companions.

Haldir felt that the sun had shown on him specifically.

“Ah, Haldir,” she said loud enough to be heard, “I cannot possibly eat them all. I have an idea, I’ll divide them among the horses.”
“Phaila!” Anacalimën gasped.
Phaila cocked her head at Anacalimën, “villain.” She hissed and walked sqing ing by her.
“Haldir can you not do something?” Lessien begged playfully, appealing to him.
“I’m afraid that I cannot interfere, much less command a Morrigan.” Haldir declined solemnly, playing their game.

Phaila polished an apple, with much exaggeration, against the wet fabric over her breast, “These are lovely Haldir, thank you.” She admired the apple.
“You’re welcome.” He inclined his head.
“Do you want one?” She offered.
“No, I have had two already,” He declined.

Phaila raised the apple to her lips and looked to see Anacalimën, Lessien and Sairalindë staring at her like hungry dogs.

Smiling she tossed an apple to each for having faithfully played the game, and then handed hers to Anacalimën and she walked around the fire and taking up the small pot walked toward the river

“No, Phaila you’ve given…” Anacalimën protested holding the extra apple out.
“I’ll have tea,” Phaila held the pot up, not turning and continued her squishing walk to the river.
Haldir’s brows knit together.

“She’s not eaten for three days now,” Anacalimën explained biting into an apple.
Lessien bit into her apple, “It is useless Haldir. Say nothing, she’ll not change.”

“I still have lambas,” he offered. The offer met with a chorus of groans.

At the river, Phaila crouched down, tipped the pot into the shallow running river, and wrung the water from her braid. She walked back and put the pot on the makeshift arm, swung it close to the flames. Sitting she pulled off her boots and poured water from them. She stood and reached under her breasts to the straps of her braces. She looked at Haldir who stood watching her, his lips parted slightly. Their eyes met. His mouth snapped shut.

Rolling up their blankets, and re-saddling their horses Phaila, now in dry clothing, but still wet boots poured water on the fire and stood a moment, watching, ensuring it was out; the others waited mounted on theirses.ses.

Phaila swung up into the saddle and turned to Haldir.

“Is it far to Calas Galadhon?” she asked gathering the reins.
“We will reach it by mid-day.”
Standing in the right stirrup, she kicked her left foot free and held her gloved hand out to Haldir.
“Come, share my saddle (sadull),” she said as if her gesture needed words.

It was on his lips to say that he did not mind walking.

She put her gloved hand on her left thigh, “I will not bite you.” She offered her hand again.

*I'm thinking I would not mind if you did.*

He took her gloved hand, slid his foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle behind her.

He sat silently behind her, his pelvis pressed against her hips, his thighs along hers. He did not know what to do with his hands. When riding pillion he should put his hands on her waist, instead he rested them on the tops of his legs smelling her hair. A scent, among the smell of sweet almonds drifted to him, one he had never encountered, faintly sweet and sharp. How appropriate.

She draped her right leg around the pommel in front of her. She stretched her back, arching away from him simultaneously shifting her hips into him both an erotic posture and sensation. He stifled a moan and concentrated on the handles of her long knives swaying before him. They looked carved from bone; the hand guard curled back, there was dried blood in the intricate etching of the left knife’s hilt.

The trail forked in thick ferns.

“Stay to the right,” he said his voice husky. He He cleared his throat and looked at the pink shell of her left ear. She half turned her head, eyes slanting under the lashes, and his heart thumped in his chest. She radiated warmth, her hair had loosened at the temples, curling, and a wisp brushed his cheek. Haldir turned, pressed against her and looked back on the three who rode noiselessly behind.

“You are very chatty, Haldir, I do wish you would be quiet, or you will have to ride with someone else,” she said with a profound sigh of the much put upon.
“I’ve never had much to say.”
“Ha!” She laughed. “That may be, but anyone who shares my saddle must have something to talk about, or do you sing?” She turned to the left, pressing back into him again, to look at him, “I imagine you have a splendid voice.”
“Oh no,” he gave a small smile as his heart thumped hard in his chest.
“Play an instrument, no, that won’t do, whistle?”
“No.”
“Hum?”

Haldir shook his head at her fighting the urge to take that small chin in his hand and taste those lips.

“Not even unawares?” She regarded him with doubt, “Really Haldir, that is very un-elf like of you, we all,” she gestured to her companions, him, herself, “are musically inclined if one were to believe the stories.”
“I don’t believe anything that I’ve not seen with my own eyes, and even then I view it with skepticism.”
Phaila’s lips bloomed wi wry wry smile, “Very wise.” She turned in the saddle facing away.

She was very cunning, Phaila. Having achieved her goal, she left him in peace and asked no more questions, nor teased him further, but she had flirted hadn’t she? Did this mean that some doom pronounced her free?

He contented himself to look at her from the corners of his eyes. She was lovely, her companions more so, but all elves were attractive, not like the race of man; random and closed fisted with its beauty. She was not as beautiful as The Lady no one was, nor was she more beautiful than a hundred maids who lived in Lórien.

She slanted her eyes again, and he flicked his away. Maybe it was the smile curling the corners of her lips that drew his eyes to her face. Maybe the audacious swagger, the eyes hazeled, sharp as an eagles and dancing with mirth. Maybe it was watching her climb from the river, her clothes plastered to her skin and making light of herself. Maybe it was the scent she wore and the sound of her ready laugh. Maybe it was because she offered no art; was herself.

The combination of elements that set ones feet on the path of love was shrouded even from the most wise.

Galadrial stood waiting on the stairs. She smiled charmed to see Haldir mounted behind one of the Morrigan, he who was so aloof and cool but burning beneath that exterior. Her smile faded as flusflushed, slid from the horse’s back. The Morrigan reached out catching his upper arm to steady him when hor horse shied. His hand closed on hem a m a simple reflex leaving them grasping each other, eyes locked in surprise. She let go of him slowly, but held her leaning position as if offering herself for a kiss. He had not let go of her; did so suddenly, realising it was his grip that had kept her bent toward him.

Phaila smiled faintly, and she too, slid from the mare’s back. She turned toward him, and he noticed that he stood no more than six fingers taller but she tipped her head back slightly, not so much as to look up but rather to look playfully down her nose.

“Thank you, Haldir, for your tolerance and great kindness,” She gave him that close-mouthed smile, lips curling at the corners.

Haldir inclined his head, his right hand touching the center of his chest then sweeping out stopping short of touching her breast; they stood so closely together.

The other riders dismounted and Galadrial looked gently on Haldir who bowed and walked backward a few steps, turned and departed.

In the shadows of the mellyrn, he turned and saw that the Morrigan mounted the steps, not saluting Galadrial. They must be very high to not show deference in the Lady’s presence.

Many had gathered, curious at the presence of their Lady, waiting on the stairs to the Palace talan.
“Morrigan,” a hiss.
“Too proud to bend their necks.” Someone whispered; hostility in the voice.
“Fool,” someone reprimanded, “The Morrigan do not bend their neck, nor their knee to anyone, they cannot have a master.”

Jön - Come