The Phoenix's Griffin

“For each man in his time is Cain
Until he walks along the beach
And sees his future in the water
A long lost heart within his reach. ” – Bernie Taupin/Elton John

They did not sleep but lay in a profuse silence, Haldir, head propped in hand while she lay facing him with eyes closed. If she had cried he could have dealt, believed he could have dealt. But this nothing was bottomless and for hours they lay silently.

He moved closer, rested his fingers on her cheek, and looked at her face. This would go on all night. Make your move go for the Queen and be gentle.

He traced her cheekbone, “Live with me.”
Phaila’s eyes opened slowly, and she rolled her head back to look up at him. Her eyes delved into his and she gave him her phantom smile. Encouraged he put his arm across her, leaned over her, his hair falling around his face, pooled in her shoulder.

“As bitch or whore?” Check and mate.

His head snapped back but she caught the back of it in her hand, took a great handful of hair in her strong grip. Oh! But there were no weapons near.

They stared at one another for several heartbeats, Haldir shocked, Phaila undecipherable.

“Easy, Sheriff, do you not know a joke when you hear one?”
“That was not funny,” he breathed.
Phaila nodded to the contrary, smiling slightly, “Yes. It was. And for nothing more than the look on your face.”
“How can you jest now?” he whispered truly perplexed.
“Oh, my heart, I must, or I would weep.”

Haldir’s eyes stung and his chin wobbled and he lowered his head to her shoulder. Phaila wrapped her arms tightly around him.

She rubbed her cheek against his head, “You are a fool to ask it, and I am a fool to accept you when you deserve …differently,” she whispered and he shook his head in abjuration, “Yes, Haldir, I am not for you.” She kissed the crown of his head and he sat up, taking her with him.

His brows knitted together, and she reached out both hands smoothing his brows, the furrow between.

She drew her nail along the thin cut that ran from ribs to breast, ribbons of blood tracked down his hard muscled stomach. He folded her hand in his. You deserve, the slight pause, differently. I am not for you. Meanings within meanings. Shadows overlapping obscuring all beneath

“It is not my habit, but it is my way.” She said coming as close to explaining anything to him than she ever had before, “I will always be going. One day I will go, and not return. That is a promise.”

“When he comes for you,” he whispered.

She did not speak. She did not need to.

“Stay til then,” he said lowering his face to look at their hands clasped together.

She nodded, raised her eyes to his, “You were right to question my motives for returning,” she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed it hard against her cheek but did not explain why she had come back, “I will stay because…” and she drew a deep breath and looked away, gave a slight laugh as a tear rolled over her lashes, and she lifted her hand, and wiped the tear away with a finger.
“I wish it so,” he finished for her.
“Please,” he whispered when her lips parted, “Phaila,” his voice broke on her name, “I beg you. Say no more.”

“And tell me
That we belong together
Dress it up with trappings of love.
I’ll be captivated,
I’ll hang from your lips
Instead of the gallows
Of heartache that hang from above. ” – Edwin Mcain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He watched as she dressed stiffly, her ribs and back bruised as was the right side of her throat, and both wrists, her right upper arm. One would think she had escaped a torture chamber to look on her. She pulled on her empty knife sheaths, slid the sword into place, swung on the quiver and bow and stood ready. Oh, Phaila. Was ever a lover won in such a manner?

He knew of a spot that would brighten her, and thus put him at ease, and led her to an abandoned talan with its over-grown garden running wild. Roses, and more roses ran up crumbling walls, but she only looked on and said nothing, her delicate nostrils flaring at the scent of them thick in the morning air.

“Do you not like roses?” he asked softly.

He saw the slight widening of her eyes at the sight of so many red blooms, but her lips thinned; jaw clenched and she swallowed hard.

She considered a moment, “There is a ritual with roses.” She folded her arms across her chest, tipped her head down to look at the roses gone amok.

“A ritual for the dead,” she looked at him, “these are not flowers of joy to me.”

Haldir flushed with heat; embarrassed with his continual…blunders.

“You could not know,” she said gently, and nuzzled his neck after noting the colour that flared in his cheeks and waded out amongst the growth.

Haldir followed slowly looking at the brilliant red flowers and wondered what role they could serve in such a ritual. The blossoms and buds suddenly took on a baleful aspect.

“Will you explain this ritual to me?” he called after her and she turned slowly, standing hip deep in red roses.
“It is complicated, I will simplify.” She reached out a hand and cupped a rose, “A rose bush is planted beside the alter of the tomb at the time of the burial,” she caressed the petals, “on certain dates, a sacrifice is made on the alter….a blood sacrifice,” she looked at him, his eyes narrowed, “A lamb, a goat, a dove.” She made a motion that it did not matter as long as blood was spilt, “The blood collected, the body burned and then the ashes and blood are sprinkled onto the roses. To quench the thirst and hunger of the spirit, to keep it still.”

She crushed the rose in her hand and scattered the petals to the growing wind. Waste, her gesture said.

Haldir tilted his head. Had she performed this ritual Amaras? Of course.

“It is the ritual I have explained, do you want the dogma as well?” she smiled.
“No,” he smiled back grimly, “Do you hold to this?”
“I have performed this ritual, but if you are asking if I want it completed at my grave.” She looked away, that slight smile appeared, “I say I do not expect to lie long enough to require it.”

She looked up at the darkening sky. “It’s going to rain.”

She walked on to a stand of sunflowers, tall, thfacefaces tipped up to the sky. “Now these,” she nodded approvingly and he was greatly surprised.
“Really?” he asked walking out to stand beside her and examine what was a very tall weed. He tipped his head at the flower, and Phaila turned her head slightly to look at him.
“I think you mock me,” she smiled a dissembling courtiers’ smile.
“No,” he looked from the sunflower to her, “If someone were to lay out every flower in the world, I would never pick this as one you would likand and she walked away with a snort as soft as a deer that said you have much to learn. She was prickly with emotions and was as scattered as the rose petals.

In the shade of a partially collapsed gazebo she drew up at the sight of a vine with heart shaped leaves; its white flowers closed against the sun.
“Hello,” she smiled and knelt at the base of the vine. Seedpods lay strewn about and she gathered up a handful.
“Nightshade,” Haldir said standing over her.
“Moon-flower,” she corrected, “a cousin,” and rose to her feet, tugging her kit round her, stuffing them inside, “Have you ever smelled a Moon-flower?”
“No.”
She smiled, “I think you will like this.” She plucked one of the closed flowers, and carefully spread its white petals open to reveal a round bloom the size of his hand. She held it up, the stem caught between her fingers, the flower laying in her palm. Haldir inhaled deeply. Why, it smelled creamy, subtly sweet, and clean and he blinked, turned his eyes to Phaila.

“Try to imagine the air filled with this,” she dipped her nose to the bloom, “I wish there were orange trees here,” she added wistfully and wandered away to examine the ruin of the garden, rubbing the soft white petals against her cheek.

Oh, she was very wobbly. He wobbled himself; emotionally raw and drained. He wanted to drink until he could think and feel no more. He had never wanted to do that before.

They stalked on silence. She had made a brief appearance with the flowers and then struck again for deeper waters. My heart, please you must get your legs back under you. I do not know what to do.

It began to rain. Haldir smiled at her, nodding and they pulled their hoods up; walked on. They trekked up another hill as the sun broke through the clouds, and the rain slackened.

“Look!” he pointed delightfully surprised to spot a rainbow that began to materialise and slipped on the muddy path, turned grabbing for the low tree branch; missed and fell on his back and continued down the hill, his arrows spilling from his quiver. He came to rest in the tall grass and lay looking up at Phaila who stood with her mouth in a perfect O, she threw back her hood and then she began to laugh. She bent double, her great unbridled chortle filling the air. She wrapped her arms around her middle and staggered as her laugh possessed her, driving all air from her lungs, and she drew a breath and began again.

He lay in the grass looking at the sky, listening to her laughter lofting in the air and smiled tried not to join her.

“Are you alright?” she called down to him with little control of the mirth that overran her. He saluted her and lay his head back. Gods. She came down the hill gracefully, lightly, as if to show him how it was properly done, picking up arrows as she came. He got to his feet.

She held out a fistful of arrows and stood smiling at him, “That was the funniest thing I have seen in a very, very long time,” she nodded, appreciatively and wiped her eyes.

“I live to serve,” he inclined his head to her.
“Turn around,” she bubbled over again and rolling his eyes he did as she said and she burst into fresh peels of laughter.
“I’m glad I entertain you,” he nodded in resignation she would never let things like this go by without a goough.ugh. He stood embarrassed; this was something he had never learned to do; laugh at himself but her laughter was hard to ignore and it was contagious. He smiled, and gave a weak laugh, brushed at his muddy leggings.
“You do have your moments, Sheriff,” she held his muddy and grass stained cloak out, pinched between thumb and forefinger and howled afresh.

She laughed off and on for an hour as they walked through the woods. He stopped, turned and looked at her again trying desperately to keep a straight face, and she stood with her gloved fist to mouth, smiling, and she waved her hand to signal that she was done. That was the end, there would be no more, onlybreabreak into another fit.

And so his slide down the hill effectively broke the silence between them.

On their second night, a fine fall evening Haldir, her lover of five years before, and consort now began to coax more of her life from her.

Much had constrained her. Obviously, she had felt that by not asking questions she had hoped to circumvent any being asked of her in turn thus avoiding mortal tit for tat, but now she must if they were to have peace in their house. Besides he knew of her closest secret. What harm could it do now?

She was a Sea-elf, her father and mother were both half human. Her mother had been a Morrigan, her father a general in Lindon, the course had been a natural one for her to follow. Both of her brothers had died young fighting Orc leaving her, her parents’ only child. Her mother had been killed while fighting in Michel Delveng and her father had joined her soon after, dying in battle as well, “tho I think he was impatient for my mother,” Haldir bowed his head. This left Phaila at fifty an orphan just reaching her majority. A poignant and violent beginning for her adult life but she did not speak sadly of it, only matter of factly. Such was life to one who dealt in death.

Her teacher, the Morrigan Helywanwën, took her in and kept her as her own daughter.

Helywanwën held a suite of grace and favour rooms in the palace of Círdan; a favour also extended to Phaila. She did not look to see how he received this. Ah, well, this explains much! He knew enough of court to see it written all over her, tho she had tailored it to fit her, and not the other way round. She smiled remembering something that she did not share.

“What is it?” he asked about her smile.
She looked , th, the smile growing, “I was remembering how much trouble I seemed to always be in.”
“Ah, this I must to hear!” he cupped his chin in his hands.
“Ah, nothing but pranks,” she fluttered her fingers, “The best,” she laughed remembering, “the best was sewing the sleeve’s of Lord Elrond’s seneschal’s gowns closed…”
“Erestor?” he asked making sure they were speaking of the same elf.
“The very same,” she nodded solemnly.
“Did nothing restrain?” h?” he laughed.
“Why would anything restrain me?” she answered naturally, “It was all done in the spirit of fun.”
“Why indeed?!” He lay back and studied her, “Weren’t you punished?”
“Oh yes.”

“And then I went away to begin my last rites as a Morrigan, but those are secret,”

Her life was almost constant motion. She kept her nest in Lindon but rarely did she reside there lon long, moving, always moving. She was too human to be elf and too elf to be human. The Morrigan moved across the borders of her mixed heritages so easily, rapidly that it confused the observer. She spoke animatedly making Haldir smile, or would become perfectly still while listening to him, only the slight flare of a delicate nostril betraying her.

She did not speak of Amaras or their life. If he could have heard the story without jealousy, or pain he might have asked for its’ telling.

She waved her hand not interested in speaking further about herself.

What could he tell her of himself? That he had lived within the confines of Calas Galadhon all of his life? That he had flitted along the borders, spying, ignoble inas Tas Tirith, Gondor, Rohan. That he had served as emissary to Mirkwood, Rivendale and had even been in the Gray Havens. He did not speak of being one of the two hundred sent from Lórien to Mordor to assist in the collection of the fallen elves.

He spoke of the days and nights spent patrolling the precincts of Lórien , the occasional skirmish with orcs, half orcs and the infrequent goblin. She sat with a half-smile on her lips, and a knowing look in her eyes when he described a few noteworthy fights.

Smiling himself he turned the subject to his love of the peacefulness of Lórien , the harmony. The view of the Misty Mountains from the edge of the Goldood,ood, the fresh cool water of the rivers Anduin and Celebrant, the stretching of the great grasslands. Her eyes had glinted hard as a jewel. He hesitated. I must sound a fool.

Refilling their wine cups she said, “We are not so different, you and I. You needn’t be afraid anymore.”
His lips parted to deny this, instead said, “My only fear is…” Phaila closed his mouth with a kiss.
“Do not,” she smiled and setting her cup aside lay against his chest.

They curled together under the soft wool blanket and watched the fire dance; Phaila sat up and retrieved the wineskin. Removing the cap she squirted the wine into her mouth. She retrieved his shirt and pulled it on to cover herself against the night air, and to hide from his sight the bruises, the scrapes, and the scar.

“How are you summoned?” Haldir asked putting his arm under the back of his head.
Phaila carefully put the cap back on the wineskin, put it in her lap, cupped her mouth and shouted, “Phaila!!”
Haldir laughed and sat up.
“Will you never give me straight answers?” he smiled and playfully shook her, then realising the possibility of bringing back the previous nights violence, drew his hands back.
“No, I will never give you straight answers,” she nodded in agreement, caught one hand, gave it a kiss before releasing it, understanding his withdrawal, and uncapped the wine and drank more, “Where are the cups? They were here a bit ago,” she asked peevishly looking around the makeshift bed and spied one under the edge of the blanket and retrieved it.

Haldir looke her her expectantly, still smiling, but with eyebrow arched waiting.
“Mmm,” she nodded, “There are sanctuaries one must go to. And in these sanctuaries can be found a sibyl, do you know sibyl?” He nodded. “The King, or chief, or Mark, recites the diktat, and the sibyl reaches into a jar that holds the tiles carved with a symbol of each Morrigan who is not engaged else where or busy being mothers and she draws the tile or tiles and calls us.”
“Symbol?”
“A beast of mythology.” A beast.
“The Griffin,” he said, remembering the ring, the signet impressed in the wax that sealed the note to him. Phaila, The Griffin.

“Who decides whose cause requires the calling of the Morrigan?”

“The gods?” Phaila shook her head slowly from side to side, “I am not a sibyl, I do not know.”
“Do you fear death?”
She blinked as she sipped her wine.
“Mmm,” she considered, “Fear? Choose another word,” she smiled.
“Alright,” he sipped his wine, “do you fear death?”
Phaila laughed, “No.”

Phaila cleared her throat, and began to unbraid her hair.

“Why have you cut your hair?” he asked turning her slightly, what had fallen to her waist now fell to above the middle of her back.
She gave him her slight smile, “A funeral offering.”

He stiffened. Let out an exasperated breath.

“Gods Phaila, you need to crack your jaw spe speak of these things to me.”
“Gods Haldir, it was two years past, I had forgotten,” she mimicked his tone and laughing, “I trimmed my nails as well, that was oh, three days ago,” and Haldir growled threw her over, pinned her to the blanket.
“You are acquainted with my meaning,” he glowered into her face.
“Oh, I am well versed in your meaning,” she widened her eyes at him, mocking him, and he lowered his and and bit her playfully on the shoulder.
“How am I to deal with you?” he moaned in despair.
She smiled, gave him a lazy lowering of her lashes, “Do not deal with me. Hold me.”
“So be it,” he bit her shoulder again with more significance.

Haldir lay quietly, sated for the moment, she was beginning to teach him of herself, and it had been a very pleasurable lesson that left him drowsy and a little hungry. He watched her from under his lashes as she sat up, drew on his shirt and then her leggings and stood. She stretched her arms over her head, bent for the wineskin and cup and walked to sit closer to the fire. Was she too cold?

She sat with her back to him and wrapped an arm around her legs and with her free hand poured herself more wine. She tilted her head slightly and looked into the flames without seeing the fire . Unwrapped her arm and moved to sit cross-legged, leaned her elbow on her knee, then dipped her head to touch her fingers to her lips, giving him her profile. The falcons’ stare and blink returned.

How did you hold her, Amaras? How did you hold her with such a grip it transcends your death? She waits for you. She bides her time with me. Look at her sitting there on the edge of the firelight. She doesn’t see what is set so perfectly before her, but looks into the dark for you. Me, she will only orbit. She will never come completely to me because she cannot give you up utterly. You made a promise to her didn’t you? Did she promise you as well? Why do you keep her waiting then? What lesson are you having to learn in the Halls before they will let you return? Or are you back and have not awoken to the knowledge of her, and of yourself? She thinks she has betrayed us all by loving me with the shadow of the affection she keeps for you. Laughable. But she burns tonight with guilt, and I will not sleep for fear she will slip away.

She stood and walked to their bed where she dropped off her clothes and lay down beside him. She rolled onto her stomach and looked at him. She knew he was awake, kissed his temple and propped on her elbows studied his face as she often did, the weight of her gaze heavy on him and finally he opened his eyes.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, and lay down her head, facing away.

Haldir crouched by the fire waiting for her to wake and when she began to stir, poured her a cup of hot tea. She lay on her side, her hair falling over her face and she raised a hand to it, removed the sunflower petal. Rolling on to her back she found that she was sprinkled in them. She sat up, a petal stuck to her right cheek; she peeled it away smiling with delight.

Haldir brought her the tea, and stood returning her smile, looked down on her.

And then he took her home.