The Phoenix's Griffin

‘I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this…the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall
The major lift
The baffled King composing Hallelujah’ – Jeff Buckley

Five years passed, and now the ache was not so sharp when he came to this place by the river. He thought often of his first sighting of her and Amaras. The lovers; the husband and wife; the beginning of a child. How soon after they’d left did that end? He thought of how he had fallen in love with both of them. Amaras for his strength, and gentle reign, and Phaila her diffused will and proud submission. He had envied Amaras in a friendly way, in that gods but he was fortunate to have what he did not.

But he had, for a moment, thought that he had that lover, but now….oh now! Anger ate his heart out, and he cursed the day he’d lain eyes on her.

He had had five years no, three and a half, he ht tht thought too hard on it until she was gone eighteen months. Then he had begun to waver. Perhaps Amaras had haunted her for coming here. Perhaps someone who lived where there was no husband ghost, enticed her.

Haldir had built a talan of his own our own not far from here, in anticipation of spending many happy years sharing it with Phaila, after convincing her it would be a good place to call home, the bed was large, soft, a good bed to conceive and bear their children; they would be bound of course, there could be no other way and he would wait out whatever separation there was, take the burden of raising their children, for the most part, on his own, willingly; oh, yes, he had crafted his argument, persuasion well but five years had passed now.

And she sent no word.

And she did not come.

There were nights, and the nights were far and away the worst weren’t they?, there were nights when he firmly believed she was deaNot Not being husband, would anyone come to him? Surely even a lover deserved to be told, if she had even acknowledged him as lover. There had been no time to agree, though he had thought they had; just the act and across the plain she rode without looking back. She had promised but only the Gods know what bind and move her. Rúmil was right.

He pushed these thoughts away; someone would have come. They had been decent, honorable and faithful friends to Phaila. Lessien, and Anacalimën and Sairalindë; one of them would have come.

She has another lover.
She is occupied, Haldir.
She has another lover.
She is wounded.
She has another lover.
She is ill.
She has another lover.
She is in battle.
She has another lover.
She is sitting through a treaty.
She has another lover.

He stood watching across the plain, his gray-blue eyes blazing and he turned away.

At the base of the Mellyrn he cut into the apple, its juice making his fingers sticky, and brought them to his lips. Raising his eyes he found her standing beside the tree opposite him. His eyes widened. Wha…? The smile on her lips faded as she appreciated his returning look.

This was not happiness looking back at her.

Haldir’s breath stopped and his heart skipped, tripped and stopped as well before starting again as a low deadly thump-thump-thump against his ribs “Phaila.” He said softly. The name rusty in his mouth.

“A promise kept,” she said cocking her head. She stood still beside the golden tree, the sky a clear blue behind her, she echoed these colours, her skin golden, honey coloured hair sun streaked, wrapped in a cloak of blue.

He dropped the apple and knife and stalked to her, she shrank slightly from him from fright? Hardly, let’s say caution smiling and taking her roughly by the arms, pinning her against the tree he crushed her mouth with his, pressing his body hard against hers; he pulled his head back, and whispered, “where have you been?” before kissing her again.

He dragged her happily behind him, she laughed, and he glanced over his shoulder at her, she mimicked sobriety; he was trying to sustain the anger he had been feeling, but was rapidly losing that battle. The truth being he was elated to see her.

They walked in silence, Haldir holding tightly to her hand as he took her to the talan he had had built for them. He could have flung her on the steps demanding an explanation; or thrown her over his shoulder and carried her up.

She of course had been directed here earlier when she had arrived at the home he had shared with his brothers and her baggage lay at the foot of the stairs that wrapped elegantly around the trunk of the tree. She had not presumed, and taken her things up the stairs, and he hated that, but was not surprised. How could kno know what her welcome would be? From his behaviour she had chosen the side of caution.

“I’ve still two nights on the border. Pick out some things you’ll need and repack them, I’ll take up the rest,” he said coolly, trembling and stood waiting.

Phaila cocked her head slightly, her eyes sliding away and she sank the smile that begged to arrive on her lips. He had been very angry with her, but had squashed it, for their sake. She did as he told her. She knelt down and rummaged through her kits, pulling out two shirts, tun tunic and two pairs of leggings. She pulled out a smaller bag that held her bath items. Then crammed the remainder of one bag into the other and what she had separated into the now empty one.

She slung on the quiver and bow, she was already wearing her knives, and she slid a different sword into the sheath set between the two knives, this one elven. He knitted his brows together, but instead of asking what had become of the charm-carved sword took up the crammed to capacity bag, her armor strung together on a rope of leather and sprinted up the stairs.

In the talan he put her kit on a chair in the great room and covered his face with his hands, he could sob with exultation and rage.

They did not speak as they walked the Golden Wood, and Phaila kept close behind. He walked his patrol of the border, and was completely conflicted in performing his duty as guardian and dealing with the matters of his heart.

She is here, she is here, she is here.. his heart beat out, filling his ears.

When he stopped to listen all he could hear was his heart, and its’ chant, and she would press against his back, shattering his tenuous concentration. His head would lower, turn to the shoulder she would press her cheek against and he would gaze at her profile, his heart shifted from chant to thunder. Did she look for comfort, or was she giving it?

They stopped at sunset, and quickly she built a small fire with the wood he brought from the forest floor, and he tracked away as she quietly unrolled their blankets to make a bed. He returned soon with two pheasants, and taking them to the stream cleaned them, washing his hands of blood in the clear water. Amaras haunted him as he watched the pink water drip from his fingers…be at peace, I love her, too. Tho no one would know to see us.

Phaila crouched beside the fire, a cup of wine in her hand, a cup poured out for him at her feet. She took the birds and placed them on spits and positioned them over the fire while Haldir watched her. They were both so very quiet. And he could not break it for each question that reverberated in his mind he dare not ask.

Where have you been? What have you been doing these years? Why did you not send me word? What the hell have you been doing? Am I a fool to have waited for you? Did you wait for me?

She was eerily quiet and impossibly still perhaps she is waiting to see which way you jump. And he would have feared had it not been for the warmth of her hand in his, her presence against his back and he began to realise how abysmally foolish he had been; his faith had indeed faltered. He should have not greeted her so; he wanted to rail at her, shake her, turn and walk away from her save himself a lifetime of grief, and simultaneously wanted to sweep her happily up into his arms. He did neither. He’d found himself some middle place of barely contained anger and concealed desperate happiness and greeted her there; not done well either. She had come back. Now she had withdrawn into some deeper place; some place he could never touch her, where she waited, expecting him to shout and while he did not, she waited in the dark, deep water of herself for him to finally reveal himself. She had left him with a promise, he had left her with an idea, and here they were ready to sort it out together.

She rose, held his cup out to him over the fire.

“Come, let’s have this over,” she said expectantly, her face still closed to him.

Haldir took the cup, their fingers touching; he shivered again. Phaila.

She had warned him, but he being Haldir believed he would not respond as the rest had to her prolonged absence. It was humbling to find that he had. He had had to make a choice, where there was really no choice at all. He stood helpless in his , ov, overwhelmed, undone, destroyed.

He rubbed his temple. “I don’t care how long you are away as long as you will say that you will always come home to me.” Haldir stared through the ripple of heat from the fire between them, that was not entirely true, but he could not give her up entirely.

She regarded him with an unfathomable countenance. Behind her eyes he saw that she knew the truth of it. Oh, you lie. And she dropped her eyes to the fire; his lie, ashes on his tongue.

“Do you not love me, Phaila?” he asked softly, he had expected … what? For her to throw herself into your arms? She might have if you had given her a warmer welcome. This is your making, now you must mend it.

“Oh no,” she raised her eyes, flicked them away then back “I have ridden a month for a tolerance.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

After such a stretch of tension and her irony to the hardest question he had ever asked anyon hin his long life, he tossed his cup over his shoulder and stalked around the fire. Damn her humour, bless her humour.

Phaila backed away from him, “Easy Sheriff,” and he reached for her quickly but she slipped from his hands, “I will ride away if pushed too hard,” she warned, turned her back on him. She worked to turn his anger by teasing him. Her own nerves were stretched to their limits.

“Trhe the thundered playfully; truthfully. Oh, he wanted to throw her down on that bed of blankets. She dismissed his noise with a wave of her hand. He walked closely behind her smelling her hair, sweet almonds.
“I kept my promise and returned for a discussion we’ve postponed for some time and yet,” she half laughed, cocked her head, still walking, paused dramatically, “No, I still hear nothing.” she turned, smiling and found him on her heels.

He opened his right hand and in the palm lay two white gold rings, made of three rolling bands intertwined. The making of these, two months after she’d left, had taken all of his nerve.

“Then let these speak for me,” he said softly and watched her looking at the rings, and for a moment his heart quailed, something moved behind her eyes

“Oh Haldir,” she said softly, and then laughed, “Oh, no!” she laughed harder, raised her hands to her cheeks.

He couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d stuck a dagger in his chest. There was a rush of sound as the cosmos passed through him.

She put her fingers over her lips as if to stop the laughter, but it did not hide the smile, “I’m sorry,” she removed her fingers long enough to get the words out and then reapplied them to her lips, “oh … is this the discussion?”

Haldir’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowed, and she laughed again, turning away, shook her head, drew a shuddering breath, and laughed again! “Ooooo,” drawn out as she tried to compose herself, hiccupped another laugh that bent her double.

“Haldir, there are things….things,” she laughed, wiping her eyes, “O, gods….! That you don’t know. Things…” she took a deep breath again, still smiling, “I should tell you.”

“You can start with why you find this so funny…” anger bubbled.
She exploded again, “It’s because this…” she laughed took a deep breath, “this is the last thing in the world I expected to happen tonight.”

Me as well.

She took another deep breath, looked at the sky trying to sober. She exhaled, rolled her head back, squared her shoulders and then looked at him.

“Haldir, I need to tell you, I….” She rubbed her brow, still smiling, “I need…”

He closed his eyes, and stopped her; she was faithful. And clearly demented.

“We, both of us, have had our past, and what I don’t know will come soon enough,” he interrupted and he touched the center of his chest, “You need not explain your life to me.”

“Oh, my Haldir,” she said softly, the tone of voice discouraging, and she turned away.
“You left so suddenly, there was time for us to have come to an agreement,” He stood helplessly, confused at what now seemed a change of heart, “I thought you understood me.”

She kept her back to him.

“Do you not love me?” he asked again, his fingers closing on the rings. Her demeanor cooled and she kept her back to him. He preferred the laughter to this countenance, that left him standing feeling strangely hollow and as if the ground under his feet had vanished suddenly. Oh gods…he nodded, retreating from his love for her. He was mortified. How stupid…how stupid!

“Steady yourself, Haldir,” she advised over her shoulder.
Haldir’s eyes narrowed, “you don’t.”
“I did not say that,” her accent was becoming more pronounced. Her voice lower in depth, and she faced him.
“Then what?”
“I cannot…” she began.
“Cannot? Bind with me?” he interrupted.

She did not answer, but looked at him waiting.

Of course. Amaras.

He stalked to her, she flinched before him seeing something in his eyes and grabbed her by the wrist, and slammed the rings into her hand. Cannot? Will not.

“A remembrance,” he snarled.
“I do not warrant this,” she said a soft protest in her tone, grasping the rings in her hand, “You must listen to me…” she tried to catch his arm, her fingers grazing the material of his tunic sleeve. “Haldir,” she called a little impatiently, frustrated.

He stalked away, turned and walked to her, “Why did you come back?” He asked furious, incredulous; stood over her, threatening.

He took her upper arm, pulled her closer to him and whatever had been on her lips to say died there. No answer she would give would placate; nor would this silence and he slipped completely from the leash and ran mad; three and a half years of pent up emotions pivoting always on injured and abandoned love exploded in him.

Her eyes slid to the hand holding her arm, and then back to his face; a trace of umbrage touched her.

Only the Gods know what move and bind her. Amen.

Phaila stood eye to eye with him, not answering. Her quiet insubordination fanned the flames of his anger. It was not satisfying to find her defying him instead of falling back, trying to explain herself. She would never do that.

“Why did you come back?” he thundered, and with the enunciation of each word gave her a jarring jerk. Still she stayed silent with an expression of strained patience, and she narrowed her eyes as if facing a strong wind. And so she was.

“Bitch,” he shook her. Nothing.

“Whore,” he hissed. Nothing.

“Answer me!” he screamed in her face, his nose almost touching hers. Grey-blue eyes blistering into gold within green.

She clenched her jaw, glared back as he applied more pressure; his eyes narrowing with exertion, then more and her left fist flew up, thrown from the shoulder, catching him in the jaw. The blow made him stagger, forced him to let go of her arm.

He backhanded her reflexively spinning her head to the left and she punched him again, quick as a cats’ paw, staggering him….again.

With a bellow, he lunged for her, and she stepped sideways, threw her hip out, caught him by the arm and sailed him over to land hard on his back.

And then she ran.

Haldir scrambled to his feet and flew after her.

She made the most of her head start, weaved through the trees, crashed through brush, fleet as a hind. He was stronger, faster, if he could catch her…then what? I do not know! Only I must catch her. He could see her running ahead of him, maybe seventy yards, trying to put as much distance between them as possible, go to ground, slip by him in the dark. He swung to the right.

On and on she ran, the sound of Haldir behind her growing faint and she stopped at the edge of a meadow. Listening between her tense breaths and heartbeat she could not hear him. He was either trailing her or she had lost him. Best to think he was stalking and move slowly.

She’d completely lost her bearings in her headlong flight to get away; she would need to navigate by the stars. She looked behind her as she drew on her gloves, but could not see him, nor could she hear him.

Haldir had moved parallel to her as they ran, and now stood screened by three trees that grew closely together watching as she looked up at the sky, then behind, to the left, to the right of her; trying to locate him, and turned quickly to double back. Haldir flew at her from the shadow. She skidded to a stop, changed direction and started back across the meadow. Knowing she could not outdistance him now, she turned on herself again, and ran to meet him.

They sped toward one another, a course set for collision.

Haldir prepared himself for some kind of engagement. What is she thinking?! And then she reached over her shoulder, drew her long knife as the distance closed to two yards. Oh Valor! He yanked his own dagger from its’ sheath, spun backward and to his left as she dropped to slide on her right knee, left leg stretched before her and under his right arm, turning her shoulders toward his body, the dagger in her left hand, the blade’s edge horizontal and braced against her gloved right open palm; a knife hold meant to disembowel, blades met and sparks flew.

She grabbed the grass to stop her momentum and rose to her feet; stood facing him. Phaila held her right hand out for balance, her fingers curled slightly, turned slowly sideways making herself a narrower target. She rolled the dagger slowly in her palm to hold it blade down in her fist.

Haldir held his own dagger; his left hand extended looking on her with disbelief. She had just tried to kill him! There was no end to her.

“There is no need for this,” he called to her, and Phaila spit blood. Oh, yes. Yes, there was. He dropped his dagger and held both of his hands palm out to her, she only blinked rapidly like a falcon will when the hood comes off.

“Haldir?!” Rúmil shouted across the meadow from the tree line, Orophin standing yards away, four other companions of the watch were similarly positioned across the back half of the meadow, all bows notched and drawn.

Phaila’s eyes flicked behind Haldir noting the position of each of the guardians and then her eyes came back to him, pale as death.
Blood trickled from her cut lip and ran down her chin, and she was oblivious.

“Leave us!” Haldir shouted over his shoulder.

They shifted unwilling to go.

“What will happen do you think,” she whispered slowly, each word as perfect and clear as a charm and hung in the air between them, “if I charge you?” and her mouth, bloody, turned up at the corners seductively.

“Leave us!” He commanded his voice deep and sharp, frightened at what she was considering and was answered by the creak of bows unbending.

Phaila stood motionless her eyes on his, the smile still standing, “Give way,” she whispered, a warning, a plea.

Haldir stepped toward her, the blade did not waver, but she made no move to relent.

“Lay down your knife,” he said taking another step.

She extended the fingers of her outstretched hand, the gesture of a cat showing claws, curled them again. She would not.

Haldir narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. Gods how this had unraveled! His broad chest rose and fell quickly, his heart knocking around inside of him as if it had pulled loose from its vessels. He stepped again in the dewy grass, hands outstretched still. Please, Phaila, please!

“What is it, Sheriff? What do you want? Have I touched your pride? Be content with this,” she touched her fingers to her cut lip, “as a message sent and well received and be satisfied,” she said softly, resolutely, “Give way.”

He stood saying nothing, chest rising and lowering, rising and lowering, jaw set.

“I cannot give you what you ask,” she spoke her voice pitched low, her words quick, “Do you not understand me? Now, give way.”

He stood waiting, “I do not care,” there. She blinked.

“I do not love you,” she said aiming to wound. Spit blood again and gave him a haunted smile.
“You lie.”
“I am in love with another,” she said aiming to kill.
“Amaras. I know,” and he stepped toward her, gestured toward her knife, “Speak to me now, my heart, this is no longer a matter for long knives…” Listen to me, Phaila! I am at fault here. I am wrong. Give me a moment to beg your forgiveness, for letting my pride, my fear, my frayed heart answer so imperfectly. What a reward for you faithfulness, to Amaras. To me.

Her chin tipped down the ghostly smile evaporating, “Amaras,” she echoed him, his skin prickled, but she kept the surprise from her voice and then the quick falcon blink, while she thought, and the smile came again to her lips, her face bloomed in understanding, harkening back those long years ago and the night spent on the Celebrant; her eyes teared, lowered. Her head turned slightly to the left as if following a movement, but the look was inwardly cast and a tremor coursed the length of her right arm. She brought her tear brimmed eyes to his.

There, she knew. She would relent. He stepped again.

With a flick of her wrist, Phaila threw the knife at him and he turned sideways hands up as it flipped blade over handle by his chest. She had aimed for his heart and he watched as she ran again, had begun her eve even as the knife left her fingertips, this time back they way they’d originally come. He bolted after her, she still had one dagger left.

She crested a hill and turned to face him. The hill dropped away to a stream below; she had literally run out of ground, reached for her last long knife as he collided with her, throwing his chest into hers, his arms coming up to wrap around hers as they flew backwards and down, two opposing angels plummeting to earth, bound in a mortal embrace.

They landed in the middle of the deep stream, where both broke its’ surface sputtering. Phaila flung back the hair from her face and kicked down the stream, lean arms flashing as she stroked away and he swam after her.

The water shallowed, forcing her to wade into more and more shallow water where she broke into a run. She grasped the bank to haul herself from the streams causeway, her boots full of water, her tunic heavy weighed her down, clung to her, hampering her and Haldir caught her by the back of the neck, yanked her back into the shallow water. But she stayed on her feet, twisted from his grasp and delivered two rapidly thrown punches into his diaphragm driving the air from him, doubling him, and she kicked his left leg out from under him. As he pushed himself up to partial sitting position she kicked him twice in the ribs and began a third when he grabbed her heel pushed her foot up and swept her leg from her. Down she went, but gods she twisted like a cat, landing instead of her on back, on her hands and knees. Haldir threw himself on her, flattening her, driving her forward. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he wrapped his forearm across her throat and then amazingly she got a knee under her, then the other and lifted them both out of the water. He jerked her head back, attempting to bring her to a stop with pain but he only drew a gasp from her and her eyes rolled to find him…she collapsed her right arm and they rolled and she clawed at him, thrashed, he let go of her hair for fear of breaking her neck, she struggled so! And she instantly rolled the opposite direction, spun to sit up and kicked him with both feet square in the chest sending him sliding in the water to hit the opposite bank.

Breathless with the blow and pain he lay propped against the bank and looked at her.

She rose to her feet with deliberation and reaching slowly up and over her shoulder pulled the knife from its sheath and walked to him with the same swaying walk that always took his breath away without a kick to the chest and was mesmerized by her approach. Have I unforgivably crossed the line with you now? Have I so trampled your honour that you will kill me? Oh my heart, has your anger blinded you as well? Do you not know why I ran after you? Can you not see me?

An arrow sunk into the ground at her feet, and her eyes shifted to look at it. She paused, then walked onward.
“Stop!” Rúmil screamed, but she did not and that smile came back to claim the corners of her lips. “Haldir!”
Another arrow, but she came on.
“No!!” Haldir screamed rising to his feet, using his hands to pull him up, “It is what she wants!” He gasped, “It is what she wants,” his eyes on hers.

Phaila nodded, “This is concluded, Sheriff,” spoken with finality, delivered and punctuated with the falcons’ blink. She wagged the long-knife at him and turned away, began to walk across the stream and Haldir launched himself at her with one last effort. She whirled, the blade flashing up between them catching him across the chest before he slammed into her, he caught her left wrist, his left arm encircled her shoulders and they crashed back into the shallow water, driving all the air from her. Phaila drew in a high harsh breath and moaned in pain and realisation. She pushed her heels into the ground, moving them both along the gravel of the stream. Letting go of her hair, Haldir struggled to catch her other wrist afraid she would transfer the knife from pinned hand to free as she writhed under him, still drawing in great lungfuls of air with an agonizing sound. She dug her heels into the ground again as he pushed his knee between her thighs, forcing her legs apart. She thrashed fiercely when he pressed against her; the act of love mimed in a desperate struggle.

“Haldir!!” Orophin cried out horrified at what he had seen, was seeing still. The fight now looked like rape.

“Why do you keep…. coming back!! Leave me to deal!” Haldir gasped struggling to catch her free hand.
“He is mad,” Rúmil whispered, dragging at his brothers’ arm. “Come, leave him. He has her now.”

Haldir caught her hand; finally he had them both and beat her left hand against the bedrock of the stream until she released the knife. He feared he would have to break that wrist before she would let it go. Holding her hands over her head he pressed his chest down on hers, his chin on top of her shoulder, his cheek against hers and she arched her back one final time and cried out in heart-breaking anguish; conquered and won.

They lay winded in the shallow water, Phaila’s breath hitching and catching as she sobbed her wrath and defeat.

He raised his face, moved toward hers, she flinched sideways, eyes flashing, furious, tears of vanquish and sorrow streamed from the corners and he waited a moment, his own hot tears of anger, grief and helpless love falling on her cheeks, tried again and was successful. Her fists over her head, held in his iron grasp, relaxed slowly.

He deepened his kiss, their eyes engaged, speaking what they could not. Breaking the kiss he lifted his mouth from hers; bloody from her lip, looked up and cautiously relaxed his grip on her right wrist, who knew what she would do, kept his weight hard on her, crossed his left arm over her breasts and grasped her shoulder, his forearm across her neck, he reached out his right hand and took the knife that lay just out of her reach and threw it into the deeper water. He shifted his hips down to hide his shameful arousal, being so moved in the primeval urge to take his hard fought for prize.

Her chest hitched twice more, and she shuddered in her grief.
“Sssh,” he held her down, gently, firmly, trying to comfort her, his voice thick with lust and tears, “Sssh. I have you.”
“Yes,” she whispered to the sky.

‘And so it was
that I
came to travel
Upon a road
That was
thorned and narrow
Another place
Another grace
Would save me,' - Neil Diamond "Play Me"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He gathered her in his arms, and she buried her face against his neck as he lifted her from the water. He stood a moment pressing his cheek against her forehead fighting his own desire to sob at this catastrophe.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath he carried her through the moonlit wood back to their camp. She fit in his arms as if they were made for her, but she was so light, he felt the bones of her under her wet clothes. A month in the saddle she had said and he was emasculated. His throat constricted muting him, forcing him to comfort with his lips pressed against her forehead, her temple. Oh my heart, my heart.

He knelt, setting her on the bed. She drew her arms from him and sat looking at him with eyes he could not read; had never been able to read past mirth. She watched him, thinking, on what only the Gods knew. A nation of emotions moved below the surface of her face, muddied and bloodied. Something gave way in her and she leaned toward him suddenly, as if the invisible bonds that held her back and up were cut. Oh! She never looked more vulnerable with her eyes large and luminous and holding the look of a run down deer. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, wiping at the blood. She is not that, never that, and don’t forget for an instant it is she who does the running down. But even the predator can be wounded, and for their ruined strength and fierceness are the more heartbreaking to behold.

He took her face between his hands, no, she did not so much as blink as he raised the offending implements that had brought so much brutality down on their heads. You forced her to raise her hands to you. What damage had he inflicted aside from the obvious?

“Peace, Phaila,” he reassured her. Letting her go, he slowly reached for the buckle, unfastened and slid the sheaths from her shoulders. He turned from her setting them aside and found her eyes still on him. He sat on his heels, hands on his thighs and looked at the scratch on her cheek below her right eye, the mud along her jaw and dappled across her forehead. He pulled his wet, bloody tunic over his head and used it to clean her face, holding her chin in the palm of his hand as one would do with a child. He dabbed at the split lip, her lashes fluttering against the sting. He had never hit a female in his life, had experienced the urge to on occasion and could not believe that the one he finally did strike was his love. He was shamed.

He lay the tunic open nearer the fire and looked at her. Oh Gods, what have you done?

He crept to her across the blankets, moving slowly, deliberately, disgraced, full of remorse and fright and wanted her.

He took herht wht wrist in his hand, and tugging on each fingertip pulled the mail palmed glove from her hand, then the left. The two rings lay in the palm of her hand; she had slid them into her glove to keep from losing them. Not exactly an act one who hated him would perform, and he marveled at the presence of mind it took to hold them during their fight. He gathered the rings with a trembling, numb fingers and lay them aside.

He peeled the wet shirt from her shoulders delicately, tugged off her boots, her wet leggings, and then undressed himself. She examined her handiwork while he kept her within arms reach should she decide to bolt again, but no, her running was done.

Haldir turned her in his hands, lying her on her stomach. She was compliant and did not tense or resist or worse yet, flinch from his caresses, but intuitively moved with his gentle pressures as he examined her. Yes, there were marks on her back from the dagger sheaths. No, they are from you knocking her to the ground. She was grazed and bruised all over. The mark on her upper arm a perfect imprint of his left hand, her wrists were bruised, Gods, where was she not marked? He kissed the back of her neck and ran his hand along her right side, his fingers drawing over a scar. A new scar. He turned her again, raised himself to look at the zigzag of a knife wound.

“Gods, Phaila,” he whispered harshly imagining the desperate fight that that had been.
She trembled with her own thoughts.

He made love to her gently at first, had wanted to be gentle, but oh, the way she moved under him, her breath in his ear, and with soft moans she urged him into a harsher grip on her. Hands that had cradled her shoulders tenderly, now slid under her hips, tilting them up, and he moved deeper inside her, wringing loud moans from them both.

He tossed his head, he was so close, had been over excited with the chase and the intimate struggle in the stream; and she whispered, “yesssss,” into his ear and drew from him the most gut wrenching orgasm he had ever experienced. He gave a rasping wail in his release, his mouth against her neck, his hands brutally griping her hips as he unleashed a torrent into her. And she followed him, muscles tightening on the throb and pulse of him.

Lying breathless and weak over her, a night birds’ call came from the dark wood, Rúmil, Orophin and the other members of his company letting him know they were passing discreetly by. He ran his hand over her, pulling the blanket up to cover them as he raised his head to look. What would they make of this after all they had beheld? What they will. He stroked the hair from her forehead, and whipped his head back to move his curtain of hair that held her face from the light.

“Phaila…”
And she shook her head, turned it and kissed the arm nearest her face, closing her eyes tightly. She was right. What could he say to undo this night?