The Phoenix's Griffin

They lay on the bank of the stream, the sun setting, Phaila on her stomach dabbled her fingers in the warm, clear water, while Haldir laying on his side, head propped in his hand regarded her. There was a slight scar that channeled vertically down her left cheekbone, a scar that looked very much like what one would get from a knife or sword blade.

“My home faces the sea,” she spoke softly, eyes gazing into the nothing before her, “and I go to sleep and wake to the sound of the waves as they break on the black rock cliff below. In the morning, mixed with the sound of the waves is the call of gulls and terns, one raucous, the other high and clear,” her hand floated up above the stream, “In the autumn there are great storms that blow across the sea, with thunder louder than the waves that break on the black rock cliff. In winter, from the north come snowstorms that turn everything white and snow hangs in the ledges of the black rock cliff, where the terns nest,” she turned and smiled at him, “to the east there is a great wood called the Ghost Oak Forest where a hot spring of five miles keeps a mist forever hanging in the boughs of the oaks. There in the Ghost Oak Forest live wolves of mist gray with amber eyes, and when the wind blows from the Forest, you can hear them howling the loneliest sound,” she looked to the right of her, “Over the Blue Mountains there is another sea, a sea of grass, rolling hills of grasses that bends in the wind. The grass so tall it breaks against your thighs. To this sea come dark gray horses , sweet tempered, brave and strong. They gallop from the north in the early spring to have their ebony foals in the tall, deep green grass.” She paused so long.

“What lies to the south?” Haldir asked.
“Men.” she answered flatly and Haldir burst into laughter.
“After the Grey Havens, nothing but men.” She spoke with mock disgust.
“It sounds a wild place. Not like Lórien .”
“It is nothing like Lórien ,” she lolled on to her back and he could not tell if she approved or disapproved of Lórien , “and I’m not full elf,” she looked at him, “If you did not already know…”
“No!” he parodied shock.
She threw a blade of grass at him, playfully irked.
“I don’t care, my heart,” he answered. She was baffling in what she considered problematic.

He plucked another blade of late autumn grass and dropped it in the stream. He dipped his fingers in the warm water, and flicked them at Phaila. She smiled, wiped the drops from her cheek and bridge of her nose.

He smiled and rolled onto her, plunging his lips to hers, he murmured, “the water is very warm,” and holding her in his arms rolled the both of them into the stream.

Sputtering, and coughing water Phaila rose, looked with disbelief at Haldir who stood in the waist deep stream wiping the water from his own face.

“Haldir has a very wicked sense of humour,” she said, as if making a mental note; nodded in recognition of the ruined velvet, she began to unbutton it, peeled it back, revealing herself to him. She did not raise her eyes the gauge his reaction, only tossed it into the grass, and then brought her eyes to his. She stood exposed, the white undershirt transparent, plastered to her skin, and at this sight Haldir held his breath. Amaras had been right to shield her. And unlike the incident at the Celebrant he looked much harder. Her breasts were full, would fill his hands, the nipples hard against the linen, and the curves, plains of her torso were revealed. His eyes traveled up and up across the flat stomach, ribs, the breasts, beneath the sheer fabric, he bit his lip at golden skin above, the collar bones, the hollow of her throat, the long neck, the small chin, the full mouth, the small upturned nose, the high cheek bones, the vulpine hazeled eyes, the brows, the high forehead, the hair swept back plastered to her head, the sharp ears, pink shells. Oh Valar! Who could behold such a sight and not fall in love after knowing her sweet and droll heart?

Slowly he pulled his own tunic off. Now Phaila drank him in, and yes, what the clothes had hinted at revealed their promise. And how tantalizing the cloth clung to him. The deep chest, the areolas of his nipples dark, the broad shoulders, narrow waist flowing into a masculine hip. He was beautiful, and severe in repose, cool as the moon; he thinks too much, feels too much and it shows on his face only he sets it in aloofness and waded toward him. It would please him.

Stopping a hands breadth from him she looked slightly up into his eyes. He closed the space, touching his lips to hers, his eyes open, looking back. Haldir’s hands came up and took her under the jaw as his mouth slowly opened and he closed his eyes, and filled her mouth with his tongue.

On the bank of the stream, Haldir pulled her under him. The both of them trembled visibly, teeth almost chattering with excitement, and the magic that comes rarely. She hissed when he buried his length in her with four impatient thrusts, and he fought against raising his head; his natural inclination to see if he’d hurt her, instead closed her mouth with his own. He wanted to hurt her in a way that lovers do, wanting her to feel him with every movement she made the following day. He found her smaller in his arms than he had expected. And she had the narrowest of waists! Her ribs clear against the golden skin. Her arms were muscles and bones. Legs lean and strong from running and riding hooked behind his knees. He shivered with pleasure. No soft elf maiden sighing, and shrinking from his rough hands, his rough touches, but something else hot blooded and yearning, as hungry for flesh as he. She writhed at the pleasure-pain he inflicted unintentionally, intentionally in his lust. He bit her neck, drawing another hiss from her lips.

Phaila’s hands caressed his back, trailed down to the curve of his hips, back up to his shoulders, running down his arms, leaving red trails on the star kissed skin, then tangling in his hair she took the powerful neck in her hand. Hard muscled, heavy he pinned her to the unyielding ground, oh yes, he was a stallion. Her nails dug into him, drawing from him his own painful, pleasurable hiss.

She arched under him. And he sank to the entrance of her womb. Oh, yes, he moaned into her ear and she bit into his neck, and whispered, “Haldir.” He found himself whispering to her his love, his hands moved from under her hips to her shoulders, to her face, turning her chin in his hand to crush her mouth with his own, his eyes locked on hers, feel me moving in you? He thrust forward, retreated, lost in the sensations, looking into lust veneered eyes, twisting his heart, while the scents of them mingled. The combined soft sighs, and moans as they moved together. She panted, gasped, her face turned to his shoulder, gave a soft cry that set him on his way, oh yes, stiffening against him, her small chin hard against his shoulder and then arching away, only to grind against him. Hearteart thundered, the pressure had reached its peak, and he flew from his own precipice pouring his seed into her, roaring out against her slender shoulder, while some dark primeval place within him called out, take by me, take by me!

He kept her pinned to the ground as he caught his breath. Sweat streamed from him, puddled in the concave of her stomach, the notch in her throat. Phaila pulled the wet hair from their faces, and Haldir raised his head, cradled her between his arms, and he kissed her deeply.

“Are you alright?” he asked, hoping so for he did not want to move.
She smiled, shyly, “Oh yes,” and laughed at the absurdity of sex.

“I leave for the border in a few hours,” he said as they dressed, “When I get back there are some things I want to discuss with you.”

She looked at him buttoning her damp shirt and tucked it into the waist of her leggings. Oh Haldir, you should have made this an option instead of telling her after. She will not understand, will feel tricked.

“You may want to talk now, or when I return,” she flicked her eyes to her fingers working the buttons, a slight smile of irony curling her mouth at its corners, “I leave at first light.”

He stood bare-chested, his hair hanging over the bare skin still flushed and damp. He was breathtaking. He was thunderstruck.

He felt tricked.

Balancing on one leg then the other she pulled on her boots tossed her head and looked at him. No, he was not taking this well at all.

He looked away, then laughed, and stood looking and tugging on the tunic as if he couldn’t find the armholes. There was much he was going to have to grow accustomed to; first and foremost: she would not sit idly by waiting for him. Second: she did play by the same rules as other female elves.

“I was feeling a bastard for not telling you, before,” he jerked his head, down and to the right.
Phaila laughed, “I was feeling a bastard myself, I think this is a great illumination of how it’s going to be knowing one another.”

Haldir nodded, appreciating her with slitted eyes, “Remember this Phaila.”
“I will keep it in mind,” she answered dryly.

They stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the palace talan and looked at one another in silence, realising it was going to be a wait until they saw one another again.

“Phaila, my heart…” he began softly, holding her hands, looking at the ground between them…do not go without an exchange of promise for promise.
She covered his mouth with her hand, but he drug the hand away, held the wrist painfully in his hand.
“I will come back,” she kissed him and disengaged herself from him let me go, oh Valar and trotted up the stairs, the heel of her boots a neat click, click, click.

“Phaila!” he called out to her. She turned on the curve of the stairs, holding the red velvet tunic, a glow on her. Did I put that glow on her? Gods, look what you’ve reduced me to; shouting to you on the palace steps.
She stood lightly with one foot on the upper step, looking down on him as if from a greater height than where she stood. She waited patiently.
He smiled instead, and let it pass. Good enough; for now.

Haldir walked toward home, floating on air; crawling through glass. He felt buoyant, he felt leaden. He had hoped that there would be just a little more time. Ah, this is the way it would be from time to time. They would find themselves at cross purposes. You must be still. He could smell her on him; the smell of sex and that perfume she wore. He brought his tunic to his face, yes, she was here as well. I would wear this if I weren’t going out, only to smell you for what is left of this night. And he resolved not to throw it away, the velvet was ruined, but that did not matter now. Now it smelled of her, of them. He hated that they had to part so after their first encounter. They should be lolling in his bed, making love, dozing in each others arms, instead of this cold walk home.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the talan he shared with his brothers a figure moved. It was Alatariel, the maid whom had refused to see him three weeks ago, after he had returned from his time in the north. He had been distracted by her and her silver hair, soft speech. It was too much for his pride to bear to be turned from her families door, embarrassing him profoundly. She had prized herself highly, thought to teach him a lesson and was taught one in return.

“What are you doing here, Alatariel?” he asked drawing up suddenly.
“I was wanting to see you, Haldir,” she said softly.
Haldir narrowed his eyes at her, “Go home, child,” he said and walked by her. She reached out took his arm in her gentle grasp.
“Is that what you want, truly?” she asked turning her big blue eyes up to his.
Suddenly Haldir realised how ordinary her eyes were. He removed her hand from his arm and turned away again.
“So, you prefer that Morrigan to a true maid?” her voice cut the night.
He stood and looked on her feeling anger, smelling Phaila. He stepped toward her and she shrank from the look in his eyes.
“True maid? You are no maid, but a bitter child who sees her discarded toy taken up by one more appreciative and wants it back,” he hissed, “As for the Morrigan, you will mind your tongue, or I will forget myself.”

Alatariel’s bottom lip came out in a trembling pout and she turned quickly and walked stiffly away.


He stood in the bows of the Mellyrn and listened to the rumble of hooves coming from Calas Galadhon.

O, look at them come! The tall, long-legged dark gray horses thundered toward him, great heads swinging from side to side fighting the bits, black manes and tails flags in their momentum.

He swung down from the tree as the riders streaked by, they gave out a shout of joy in the speed of their horses. One turned the horse as it crossed the Celebrant. The horse fought against the curbing hand, but was compelled by her mistress.

Phaila wheeled the rearing horse and spurring her back across the river and whipped a long scarf from around her neck. She held it out to him and he grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the scarf and the horse danced away taking him with her. Drag her from the saddle! But could I hold her?

Stilling the great horse, she leaned down and kissed him deeply, righted herself, “I will come back, Sheriff,” she held the high-spirited mare who tossed her head, “I promise,” her eyes bright.

He gave her a brusque nod and reluctantly let go.

She smiled and swerved the mare away and chased after her companions leaving him watching as if to hold her there with the power of his gaze, the scarf of soft wool, blue-gray hanging in his grasp.

He raised it to his face, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, that scent, elusive; and her. He looked northeast; they were already fading, approaching the horizon.

Is your love strong enough?
Like a rock in the sea
Am I asking too much?
Is your love strong enough ?
- Brian Ferry