The Phoenix's Griffin

Is it a kind of dream,
Floating out on the tide,
Following a river of death downstream
Or is it a dream?

There's a fog along the horizon,
A strange glow in the sky,
And nobody seems to know where you go,
And what does it mean?
Or is it a dream?

Is it a kind of shadow,
Reaching into the night,
Wandering over the hills unseen,
Or is it a dream?

There's a high wind in the trees,
A cold sound in the air,
And nobody seems to know where you go,
And where do you start,
Oh, into the dark - Art Garfunkle

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For three days they remained high in the palace talan of Galadrial and Celeborn, and Haldir haunted from a discreet distance wanting to see her again. Gods what could they be talking about? He retreated to the wood and walked thoughtfully beside one of the many streams that threaded Lórien . This particular stream was one a bit closer to the talan of Galadrial and Celeborn, in the hopes of perhaps…? What moved him here? She had been so… so what? A warped reflection of yourself? Her haughtiness, power was playful and daring and she was unflinching in the face of death, light hearted, no, she embraced the death around her. What strength must she possess to have walked and breathed with her husband dead and no release but to be killed. He shuddered. He shook his head, what was he doing here? He felt very young and foolish, so masterfully compelled. He looked about, listening to the birdsong above the sound of the stream, pursed his lips, kicked the grass and ground his teeth. Yet he remained and another day passed and he was again thwarted.

His persistence was rewarded the next afternoon.

The four were at the stream. They had washed their clothes, and were now collecting them from the bushes where they’d spread them to dry in the sun. Phaila, he knew from her darker, honey hair, and more, had already put her clothes in her leather bag and sat on the grass sharpening the edge of her sword. Lessien spoke something and she raised her head and looked at him. She rose and spoke back to them as she tucked the whetstone in her bag.

“Well, Haldir,” she called across the distance between them as Lessien, Anacalimën and Sairalindë took their belongings, waved and left the glade, “I was wondering if I would see you again,” she stood ankles crossed, swinging the sword back and forth, smiling that slight smile, and lit from within; she beamed forth an unmistakable invitation.

He inclined his head and made the ritual gesture of greeting.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the stream that separated them.
“I am the guest here,” she smiled and watched as he leapt the narrow stream, and walked to her.
“How do you find Lórien ?” he asked folding his arms across his chest.
She looked around for a moment, “Very quiet,” she spoke softly.
“Do you not like the quiet?”
“It serves it’s purpose, but this,” she waved her hand in the air, “makes one feel very loud,” she whispered.
Haldir considered this and smiled listening, “I suppose it does, I hadn’t thought of Lórien that way,” his eyes flicked to the sword.
“It is very beautiful.”
She looked at the weapon, offered it to him.

Haldir noticed she wore her daggers.
“You needn’t go armed in Lórien,” he said slightly disturbed by the weapons, “we are safe enough.”
She paused, smiled and handed him the sword.

Haldir hefted it easily. He stretched his arm out, holding the blade horizontal to the ground, eyeing it. It was indeed a very beautifully wrought weapon. The handle small for her hand, wrapped in soft sweat-stained leather, the wrist guard intricately carved with what looked like charms. The blade its self was long, straight and bore a deep bloodline along both sides.

He handed it back.
Phaila slid it into its scabbard and lay it across the pack, and looked at him expectantly.

Haldir ducked his head slightly, suddenly feeling self-conscious, “I’ve been wanting to speak with you, and” What? Now I’m here I can say nothing? “And I’m not good at small talk,” he raised his eyes.
Phaila regarded him, looking intently into his brilliant eyes, “I’ll tell you something,” she leaned toward him, “Neither am I.”
“Oh, now that I do not believe!” he scoffed smiling.
“You are right, I was lying,” she lowered her head in contrition and he laughed, she took his arm as if she had taken his arm a million times before.
“Come, Haldir O’Lórien and show me this paradise,” she waved her hand elegantly, with much affectation making him smile.

They walked together in a sparking silence among the tall Mallorn, Phaila peering up at the graceful talans that were home to the elves of Lórien. She did not walk the gliding gait of elven maids, nor matrons for that matter, nor did she walk as an elf at all. Her gait more purposeful, a self-possessed and predatory sway, her hip occasionally brushing his as she leaned against his shoulder and turned her face up to the tree-tops.

She slitted her eyes in the light, gold, among the green, soft gold, brilliant gold, the air was a gossamer veil of gold. She resisted the urge to raise a hand to shield her eyes against the gold light. She leaned her shoulder harder against him, as she turned her head to look, up and up; eyes narrowed against the brightness. The small arrow dark against the soft skin, clear and he quivered at the implications of its shadows.

“These trees are very tall,” she craned her neck, drawing his eyes from the arrow to her upturned face.

Haldir smiled, beguiled away from the darkness of the arrow. Most would call the trees stately, beautiful beyond compare, or use some other banal turn of phrase and so she called them ‘tall’.

“Where do you live?”
“I live in Lindon, but am rarely there,” since Amaras, this she did not, of course, say.
“The Gray Havens.”
“A bit further north.”
“And you live there?”
“When I’m not ….” She gestured vaguely.
“So, when you’re done….” Haldir mimicked her vague gesture, “you’ll go back to Lindon or can you see your way clear and return to Lórien?”
She laughed at his imitation “That hinges on infinite possibilities…”
“Of future invitations elsewhere?”
“Yes and no, I don’t know…” she began.
“Yes, of course,” Haldir said swiftly, nodded; inwardly crestfallen. He pulled a little against her arm as if to walk them away from this conversation.

“I don’t know when I will come back this way,” she stopped him, turned him, and stepped into him so closely their noses almost touched “However; if there is an invitation to return to Lórien, I would as soon as I could.”

Something said quietly, ‘be bold’.

“Will this suffice as invitation?” he whispered and pressed his lips to hers, gently, at first…..
“Oh, that will serve,” she rolled her forehead against his, a feline gesture; her eyes went to the sky.
“I must go,” she said softly, her lips moving against his.
“I want to see you tonight,” his hands went to her waist. The fingers digging into the small of her back, grasping.
“It will have to be late,” she put her palm on his chest, to feel the hardness beneath, and his heart knocked against her hand.
“Late then,” he agreed.
She kissed him softly again, her eyes on his, “I will send a message when I am free” she backed away, “but where shall I meet you?”
“At the laundry,” he smiled and she laughed.

In the talan he shared with his brothers, Haldir combed his half dry hair out and began to re-braid the locks at his temples. He trembled slightly as excitement, anticipation coursed through him. He stood before his open wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. Choosing from among his court clothes, settling for a sapphire blue tunic, the sleeves and collar embroidered with a darker blue. He pulled it over the white shirt, smoothed the fabric, and swept his hair from under the collar. The note she had sent half an hour earlier laying on his bed.

Rúmil and Orophin exchanged looks, but said nothing. They had felt something different radiating from their beloved, elder brother. Something they had never felt before, forget that they’d watched him standing before his clothes for five minutes, eyes flicking from one tunic to another trying to decide which to wear. Gods, he’d never done that before, was always so careless with what he wore.

“Where are you going?” Rúmil asked setting aside his book as Haldir entered the great room.

Haldir only smiled furtively, and looked down to ascertain the state of his boots, good.

“The Morrigan? Haldir is that wise?” Rúmil asked cautiously, it was no secret where he had spent his day; they had been well appraised of the meeting in the meadow beside the stream, and the walk, the kisses, Haldir watching her leave. And then there was the stately elf from the palace delivering a sealed envelope, sealed with red wax, stamped with a signet.

Haldir arched an eyebrow inquiringly.
“Well, she’s a Morrigan…” he trailed off helplessly, “Only the Gods know what bind and move her, is this something you want to meddle in?”

Haldir held his enigmatic smile and walked out.

He made his way back to the stream and leaned against the tree, and thought on her. Abstract thoughts, corporal thoughts. The latter stirred; the first frightened. Rúmil ’s words bobbed to the surface of his reverie, ‘only the Gods know what bind and move her….’ I will move. I will bind her. A soft laugh following so quickly on his thoughts jerked him back, snapping his head to the right and he found her leaning on the tree, inches from him; how long had she been there?

“It must be safe,” she said into his wide, startled eyes, “to be so lost in thought.” She held up a bottle of wine and two cups; clinked them together. SettSettling on his spread cloak beside the stream they sat in the moonlight sipping the wine that Phaila had brought with her.
Haldir sipped his and looked at the cup, he’d had this before. He looked to Phaila questioningly.
“Yes,” she smiled meaning she’d brought it from the table of Galadrial and Celeborn.
“There is none finer,” he intoned, and then felt ignorant. She who had just come bearing wine from the cellars of The Lady of Light, sat at the high tables of Kings had more likely than not had superior wine to this.
“I cannot think of one,” she answered tactfully and smoothed her leggings.

She was dressed in finer clothes. Scarlet velvet, black and white. She straightened her legs out on the cloak before her and propping herself on her back stretched hands looked at the sky. She wore two rings, one a griffin emblazoned signet that had sealed the wax, the other a great golden topaz. The wedding band gone.

“One could almost forget themselves here,” she said reflectively, but before Haldir could question this, she looked at him. “My that sounded almost melancholy,” her tone heavy with sarcasm.
“It is a healing place.”

Phaila lifted her cup and saluted that statement, brought the cup to her lips and regarded him over the brim. In the moonlight his eyes were pale, and in a facee fre framed with silver-bathed golden hair he looked to her, a ghost.

“You know, the entire city is on its ear.”
“I can imagine,” she smiled, “What are they saying in the market?” she leaned toward him eagerly, making him laugh, “The best news to be found is in the market.”
“Oh Haldir, you are quite something to look at when you laugh,” she reached out and brushed a strand of fine hair from his cheek, and lay her hand on his leg. Bringing his heart to a stop to restart in a hectic skip.

He sat entranced by her forthright seduction, and humbled and flattered that someone of her incomparability had found him interesting, the earlier kisses forgotten, he was starting over. He had come with the idea of seducing her. Ludicrous. She made her intent clear, made him tremble with expectation. He leaned into her kissing her deeply, his hand reaching up, catching her jaw in his hand.

Retreating from the kiss they looked at one another. Evaluating, making mental moves on the chessboard of life lain out before them. Who would try for the Queen? Who would corner the King? And just how to begin?

She gave him a soft smile and marched out a knight.

“How is it, Haldir, that you have no lover?” she asked and looked down, “I don’t want to presume, and I do not mean to insult you by implying if you had a lover you would be unfaithful,” she qualified lifting her cup to her lips, her eyes flicking to his gaze, then away she looked again. Oh, I must get a bit, more drunk.

He smiled she was very adept, “No, no lover, I am most disagreeable,” he pulled a stern face to make his point.
She narrowed her eyes appraising the glare, “Impressive,” She agreed nodding appreciatively, “but I know many who were disagreeable, more so than you, amazingly enough I realise, who have lovers,” she sipped the wine watching him over its’ rim.

He smiled, then took a deep breath, “I don’t have time to devote to a lover, I have only a few days here and then I am back in the north. Not many understand that duty.” He paused adapting her tone; modulation of voice, “There’s something about being shouted at after two weeks on the fences that kills the romance.”
“Ha!” she snorted coughing on her wine, “I daresay,” and she laughed again, seeing him standing before a tearful maid filling her mind.
“You? Or do you have one in every town?” Would she not mention Amaras? He sipped the wine.
“One in every town,” she nodded and raised the cup to her lips. She sat thoughtfully, seriously, for a moment, “No one understands what we must do, that there are calls that are great and cannot be ignored. However; does this mean we love less when we answer, I ask you?” She loved to play with words, he noted, “It means we are much alone. Which leaves us with a choice, accept or constantly face tears and recriminations for the comfort affection affords. Perhaps a here-and-there lover is your answer.”

“Are these our only options?”

She stretched out on her side, propped her head in her hand, and regarded him, but did not answer.

“I would prefer something more substantial, I have had the other and would fast again if not for you,” he answered and leaned over her.

She closed her eyes before his lips touched hers. It was too much, and it was just too much to look into this face, these eyes that would make her believe in him if only for the sake of their colour.

She pushed his hair back from his face, wrapped it around her fist and traced his jaw with a long nail, her eyes on his, and her lips parted, say it, but they closed, turned up at the corners instead. She would not be had for nothing. He lay his head down on her shoulder, forehead against her cheek, his arm across her, cupped her side in his hand, frustrated as he had frustrated others, with silence.

“When I was very young,” she smiled rubbed her cheek against his forehead remembering, “I would lie in the grass to watch the clouds, and there were times I felt, oh, as if the world had suddenly turned upside down and I was falling into the sky. And I would hold tightly to the grass and close my eyes until that feeling passed,” she traced her nails over the back of the hand that held her side, “The world has turned upside down again.”

Haldir murmured a soft sound, raised his head and looking at her upturned face, moonlit and leaf shaded, her eyes turned from the night to his. That is the truth of her; no matter how high she burned; she was dimly lit, shadows on shadows within; the dark of the arrow had pierced more than the skin high on her neck. He could be the light to the dark of her, all she need do is hold out her hand and he would give over his heart gratefully.

He kissed her again and sank his head to her shoulder.

“Do they watch us?” she asked and he turned his eyes to the stars, “Do you think, during times of trouble, times of happiness perhaps they turn their faces to us to pray for help, or offer gratitude? Or do they simply admire us? Do you think one says to another, ‘look at Haldir, he shines so bright!’” her voice trailed off in a whisper, eyes wide taking in the night sky through the canopy of leaves and branches.

Haldir cap captivated, buoyant and taut as a bow string with one foot on the roiling ground of falling in love; emotions he had not so much as shaken hands with suddenly demanded audience, and teared his eyes with their sudden and buffeting appearance.

He surreptitiously wiped a tear that trickled back toward his ear, before touching her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“If I were in that sky,” he spoke softly, “I would hold your star most dear to me, look for you every night and curse the sun.”
“It would be a half life then. Could you live in such twilight?”
For you? “Yes.”

Dawn broke and still they lay on the cloak, the wine long finished, their fingers curled together, he had become satisfied to lie with his head beside hers, leaving her to her thoughts, as lay with his own.

Voices could be heard, a great many that were added to as the minutes passed, and then a cheer.

“What’s that?” she asked sitting up. She was tense, the calm replaced with such alertness it rippled through the stillness.
“A tournament,” he had forgotten.
“Oh?” she sounded interested.
“Would you like to go?” he sat up as well.
“Will you compete?” she asked rose to her feet.
Hallooklooked away, smiling, “If it would please you.”
“I would like to see what you do, since all a saw of your prowess was an arrow in my saddle.” Sadull. He smiled.

“Come, Haldir, I would see you,” she laughed, “It would please me,” she bent over him, sweeping her hand over his forehead and then back into his hair.
“You will only distract me with your presence, but I will do as I am commanded,” he sat looking into her eyes. O Gods, I cannot breathe. Of course he would.

The field was peppered with pennants that fluttered in the cool wind. At the end of the field, among the tall trees, the targets were set on a series of ropes on pulleys to be maneuvered quickly and constantly. What challenge for an elf was there at shooting static targets? She smiled wistfully, look lit little flushed, the excitement of competition was contagious.

They attracted much attention appearing in their court clothes, heads bent together; it was obvious, too obvious among the subtle elves. Haldir had been escorting a maid only three months ago, a respected maid from a good family. What could he be thinking? This would bury that; as the maid stood with her mother staring open mouthed across the field. Her mother said something, closing her mouth.

Phaila’s eyes caught this; she pursed her lips, then smiled.

“Would you like to put your name down?” he asked, “there are no constraints…”
She smiled, curling her hand around his arm and looking away, “I cannot,” she declined with a tilt of her head. She stared back, the slight smile on her lips; defying them.
“I suppose it wouldn’t do for someone of your ability to put the best we have to shame,” he smiled trying to illicit a response but she only turned that slight smile on him and did not answer.

Haldir entered his name for archery and sword; and with Phaila on his arm watched the other competitors, where she murmured appreciatively at arrows well place, and when one went wild she gave an amused “Ha!” and covered it with a cough.

Haldir gave a snort of disappointment; he had personally trained that young elf. Then he was called to take his place, a pit suddenly replaced the spot his stomach was and he walked disconnected from his surroundings, as if in a dream, to the mark where a young elf stood with bow and arrows in hand, and wondered what had he been thinking.

Before the watchful eyes of his … what? t wat was she? He pulled at the bowstring, testing it and the bend of the wood. What was she? Not lover. Not yet. His heart swelled and stomach fluttered.

Taking up the arrow he notched it, drew back to his cheek, eyes tracking the target. She was the target. He loosed the arrow, a bull’s-eye. He loosed seven arrows, all the same, bull’s-eyes and he pufwithwith pride to be observed by her; sank to be observed by her. How skilled is she? Very to have lived so long amid the hostilities she was constantly exposed to. He turned and handed the bow off to a young elf who smiled shyly with admiration and adoration of Haldir. He took his place beside Phaila to the congratulations of everyone and was soon presented with the garland as the winner of the archery competition.

“Well, I would expect nothing less of you, granted it is not the same thing as putting one in a saddle, now that, that takes skilave ave I told you how much I admired that?” She said softly beside him and he blushed furiously, laughed, lowering his head and she wrapped her arms around his waist, propping her chin on his broad shoulder. Haldir turned his head, smiling under her praise wrapped in a ribbing and she kissed him before all. The mark etched behind her ear clear to those who stared.

Next was the sword. Here they wore padded, quilted vests to protect them from overzealous blows, the swords were dull, but could deliver a serious break if care was not taken.

Phaila slipped the vest onto Haldir, with deft fingers she fastened the buckles and checked him carefully her complete aspect changed. She has done this, and often he thought as she tugged at the buckle before fastening the next and he thought again of Amaras. Tall, dark Amaras. But of course she had. There were sister Morrigan she must have helped, and been helped in return. Amaras held sway in the forefront of his mind. Did he stand as I do now, looking down at her strong hands, long fingers, long nails moving over the buckles his chest swelling, his throat swelling, his heart swelling? He gave an internal shake and banished the thought. She gave the braid that hung over his shoulder a tug, thumped him in the chest powerfully with the back of her hand, startling him with her strength and winked at him “Take his head off,” she smiled sweetly and stepped back; waiting.

Standing in the crowd of observers, her companions, the three golden elves, joined Phaila; the crowd drew away from them slightly; it hurt him to see her, them treated so.

Watching the duel in progress, they spoke one by one and Phaila nodded silently, her eyes on Haldir as he sidestepped a thrust, knocked the sword from the elf’s hand. They slipped away, disappearing into the crowd. Haldir looked and Phaila smiled, tilted her chin up.

Haldir began his second duel. Parrying, thrusting, attacking, defending, beating their swords into submission, Phaila was breathless at his skill, power and how graceful! His face grim, eyes narrowed, brow knitted. He took his three opponents in short order, the other two smiling, declined to go against the Marcher, much to his disappointment. Before her.

Phaila unbuckled and removed the vest leaving Haldir standing in his damp shirt, cheeks flushed; heat radiated from him. Oh, but the shirt clung most enticingly she smiled, her cheeks growing hot. She pulled a damp strand of hair from his throat.


Haldir received his second garland and together they quit the meadow.

“Cowards to back out,” she said softly. She took one of the gold leafed garlands and put it on her head, tipped her face up, cocky. “Thankfully,re ire is always someone wanting to best the best, and it is they who will keep you there.” she linked her arm through his, “Now Sheriff. What shall be done with the rest of this day?” She turned her head away from the gaping faces andked ked ahead of them.

She had had enough of being stared at, and he led her away.