The Phoenix's Griffin

Haldir followed her as Phaila examined, shyly, the talan that consisted of two floors reached by a covered stair. The bottom portion of the talan was the great room, and kitchen. The upper talan was their bedroom with a small fireplace, a bath and a library all connected by a loggia.

In the bedroom she put her bag down and looked at the great bed with the fox coverlet. Four great down pillows dressed in snow white linen beckoned invitingly. A small fireplace stood across from the bed, wood stacked beside, and two chairs before it. A dresser and two wardrobes against a wall. She opened one and found it held Haldir’s clothes; she opened the second one, it too.

“Must I live out of my baggage or may I have one of these?” she asked motioning to the tall wardrobes.
“Which one would you prefer?”
“The bigger one of course,” she looked down her nose at him.

She got down to the business of running a house by shaking their kits out and piling their laundry together.

“We have a someone who will do that,” Haldir said when she put the clothes into a basket. Sitting back on her heels she looked up at him, and for a moment he thought she was going to rebuke him.
“Thank the gods,” she bowed her head, closed her eyes in prayer and he snorted a laugh.

Of course the larder was empty save for a few vegetables, so she sat at the dining table and made a list of what they would need. Legs crossed she swung her booted foot back and forth, back and forth. A tail for the tailless. She was a wild animal brought indoors, one that seemed tame enough but for the look in its’ eyes. Haldir poured out wine for the both of them watching her. Phaila the organizer, who would have thought? He smiled as he sat down, scooted the cup across the maple table. There truly was no end to her. Gods, I know so little. .

“I love you,” he said and lifted the cup to his lips. What would she say?
“I love you,” she paused over the sheet of paper, raised her head, “thank you for this,”
“The house or the pile of laundry and empty lauder?”
She flicked her eyes away and then back. “Yes,” she held the cup to her lips smiling.

As the sun set they raced down the stairs, naked, holding their towels and soap and streaked for the stream. Haldir secure in the knowledge that no one would dare encroach on the home he had built for his love. Laughing they threw down their things and jumped into the water. Soon it would be too cold to bathe in the stream and Haldir would have to bring her water to boil for their bath….funny how the thought of doing something so domestic stirred him. The water was chill already and Phaila broke the surface with a shout and she wrapped her arms around him as if for dear life, laughing and shivering. Haldir folded her in his arms, his head dipping to her shoulder, not far from his chin and smiled.

In the kitchen Haldir closed the door and Phaila turned, the long towel wrapped around her, “wha…” he grabbed her, sealing her mouth with his and bent her back, gently took her to the floor, where he pulled the towel from between them.

“What were you going to say, my heart?” he asked when he got his breath back, propped on his elbows over her.
“Hmmm?” she looked him at eyes still glazed, “Oh, what do you want for dinner?”

He cleaned the quail while she washed mushrooms and scraped carrots, he stoked the fire in the stove and she set the kettle on.

In bed he wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger while he lay looking at her face on the pillow beside him. She lay as soft as a nesting bird against his side, and O! How deceptive thinking so truly was.

He woke in the bed and found himself alone. He felt the place beside him, cold. Sitting up he looked around the room and found her sitting on the rail of the loggia. She was in her red robe of scarlet velvet its neck high, trimmed with sable and it fit her like a glove, showing her lean frame. A long curl lifted in the breeze as unchecked as she. Ah, she is ruled, only not by you. You are foolish to think that you could.

Rising from the bed he crossed the floor softly, she turned her head and smiled a sleepy smile. Leaning against the railing beside her Haldir regarded her as she regarded him. His lips parted. Where do you go in this dark? But he knew.

“Shhh,” she stopped him and examined his face in the cool, silvery moonlight. His hair was tousled, hanging over his shoulders a sheet of gold, framing his face; she had unbound the braids letting the hair fall around their faces to form a golden curtain. She raised her velvet-sheathed arms, took his face in her hands. Her strong, slender fingers traced the bones beneath the skin of his cheeks; her long nails hard against his skin, his heart skipped; fingers played along his lips, thumbs caressed his eyebrows. She pushed the sleek hair back from his face as she looked at, admired and wondered at the gray-blue of his eyes. Oh, you are a marvel.

“Will you take me with you again? To the border?” she asked finally. Haldir breathed out.
“I thought you were….”
She shook her head, “You fret so,” she smiled.
Haldir pulled her to him covering her mouth with his, and lifting her from her perch, carried her back to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Phaila rode to the market atop a high-spirited Zara who danced, tossed her black mane, and wrung her tail at being restrained. She approached the movement of elves flowing to and from the market and drawing Zara to a halt, slipped to the ground and held her hand to the horse’s face. A gesture that said ‘be still’, and untied the saddlebags, draped them over her shoulder, pulled her list from her glove and waded in. She walked from stall to stall, inspecting vegetables, and fruits, spices and meats. Making her purchases and stashing them into the leather pouches. She moved quickly among the stares and heads bent together whispering, concentrating on finding a particular oil she was fond of to mix with her hair soap. And found it, of course, at the farthest stall from her horse, forcing her to walk through the entire market yet again. She returned the rude stares with a gentle smile as she hoisted the saddlebags up and tied them securely, swung into the saddle and, tasting death, rode home.

Haldir stalked the wood for dinner while Phaila was away, and found that his brothers in turn were stalking him.

“What are you doing Haldir?” Rúmil asked.
“Hunting for dinner,”
Rúmil cocked an eyebrow, “With the Morrigan Haldir, what are you doing?”
“She is living with me,”
“Not married?”
Haldir stood propped on his bow, “No,” he said and looked away, not wanting to see their faces. Lovers are one thing, but this? This was unheard of…living together without marriage.
Rúmil waited for the explanation that was not forth coming.
“Why?” Orophin asked, sweet and gentle Orophin.
“Because she already has a husband,” Rúmil shot over his shoulder, “What will you do then? When he comes for her? What will all of us be forced to do? End this folly. Do not hold her. Was it not enough to convince you that you have chosen badly when you had to beat her knife from her hand that you have to draw down the wrath of, what will undoubtedly be, an irate husband?”
“You do not know!” Haldir shouted back furiously pointing a gloved finger at him, “You do not….know….what it is to….want… someone with such greatness that you will do the anything….everything to hold them even if it is for a moment, and realising at the same time it is pointless.” He shook his head, his hair swaying in the breeze, “Until you do, do not presume to lecture me.” He walked past them, “Do not.”

“Haldir,” Orophin called after him, but Rúmil stopped him.

Gods, the audacity to question him and his motives. They usually stayed far out of his personal life, but then this was much different. This was no lover, no maid he kept company with. She was the all he had ever dreamed of, and had for years and years. And she belonged to another. Still. Rúmil had an interesting question. What would he do when Amaras came for her? Could he give her up without a fight? And what would happen if he lifted his hands against Amaras? These questions had flitted obliquely in his mind for days. And would remain so even after being explicitly asked.

At home he put the pheasants in the dry closet. He had time to walk off hiser der during his hunt, and came home only a little clouded.

He poured a cup of spiced tea that she had made earlier and walked around the talan. His disquiet falling away as he took in his home. It was no longer a lonely place for him to brood in. It hummed with subtle life, subtle vibrancy. She’d made the bed; he never made the bed. The elf-maid he had hired to do the laundry would also tidy the place for him but she never made the bed as well as what he stood looking at. It was the hands that made the bed, he concluded, the hands of love had smoothed the sheets, fluffed the pillows, spread the coverlet to fall evenly over a bed that was destroyed when they rose from it this morning. Oh, last night! The sheets were soaked when he had finally let her go; soaked with their sweat and his semen.

And with the not so subtle. His eyes drifted from the bed to the where her sword, her quiver, bow and knives hung on the wall beside his. Her armor of leather and burnished steel on a stand beside the wardrobe that held her clothes. Flowers picked from an early morning ride stood in a cup on the windowsill. Royal blue flowers, black and silver armor.

He stood eyes taking in the armor, his heart skipping in his chest as some knowledge moved obliquely across his mind; images flashed, a sword swinging, that honey hair in its’ single braid whipping in the dark. This was her life; a life spent in service. Her life for others; as his was, but there was more, much more to it. He fought for friends, family and his home. She fought for strangers, willingly putting her life in jeopardy in their defence. His choice was understandable; hers he could not pierce light to the bottom of.

This was his love.

The sound of hoof beats roused him and he left the bedroom, walked down the stairs to the first floor and then out to see her sitting on Zara staring before her jaw clenching and unclenching, and he frowned, what had happened?

Kicking her feet from the stirrups she jumped to the ground and removed the saddlebags. Then unbridled, unsaddled Zara turning her loose and put her tack on the rack Haldir had built for her. She picked up the bags and started up the stairs. He met her half way taking them from her shoulders and kissed her warmly.

“How did you find the market?” he asked walking beside her.
“Busy,” she smiled and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning against him as they walked up the stairs, glad to be home. She held him tightly.

In the kitchen he leaned against the table watching as she unpacked her take. Spices, milk, pork and beef, bees wax candles, tea, assorted vegetables, butter, flour, soap, almond oil, gods, she had bought out the market!

“What happened?” he asked, she was too quiet and her back was stiff. He was learning to read her body language. She would not speak, she was no female to tell tales or complain; these things were beneath her.
“To whom?” she answered, her back to him, busy.
“I wish you would talk to me,” he spoke gently, his anger was still on him.
Phaila turned and leaned against the counter, cocked her head to the left, “I talk too much.”
“You are too subtle, then”
“Perhaps you need to listen a little harder.”
“I listen.”
She looked at him and smiled, “then what do you derive from this conversation?”
“Don’t give me a lesson,” he chided her sternly, and her head came up like a spooked horse.
She gave a curt nod, held her hands palm up and turned back to the counter.

He gave a great sigh, “What I derive from this conversation is that you will not talk to me of what happened in the market.”
“I told you, it was busy and that nothing happened.”
“No, you said to whom.”
“And?”
“And what?” his patience was strained, thanks to Rúmil.
“Wouldn’t that lead you to believe I did not think anything had happened?” She leaned against the counter again and looked at him.
“No, it leads me to believe you do not wish to talk of what happened,” Gods, but she was too slippery for him.
Phaila smiled and turned away.
“I want you to speak to me of these things.”
“You cannot force me to speak, let it lie.”

Haldir blinked. He ground his teeth. He must have driven others wild with this self-same elusiveness. An impulse to stomp his foot came over him.

“I don’t like to think you are mistreated,” he said softly.
“Then do not think it.”
“Stop playing with my words, this is not amusing.”
“You are too serious my heart, you need a good teasing and often.”
“Was something said to you? By whom? And if not spoken, was something done?” he stepped across the space and put his right hip against the counter top, facing her blocking her from the cupboard.
She stood holding a sack of sugar, “What do you intend? This is your home, you know no other. This is your life.”
“Not yours?” he took the bag from her hands and put it on the shelf, closed the cabinet with a little more force than he had intended.
“It is.” She reached up and pushed the braid behind his ear a gesture that drew his breath from him, “And this,” she touched her the center of her chest, “is my life. I know how best to deal.” She laid her finger over his lips as they parted, “Be guided by me in this Haldir. Subtlety is the way.” And she replaced the finger with her lips, “What would you with that temper of yours?” She laughed and began to turn away.
“Then what am I for if not to be you champion when you are troubled?”
Phaila’s eyes softened and she put her hands on his waist, “Oh my heart, you are and so very much more!” she whispered, “Only do not kill anyone for my bruised feelings.” She did not say she wasn’t worth blood spilt over her, as another would.

She laughed and kissed him, “Be yourself,” she spoke against his lips, “they will follow your lead.” And she let him go, stepped back, and leveled her eyes to his.

I did not want her to go the market alone, but had held my tongue, for all the good it would do me to speak against it. She would only laugh, or smile, kiss me and do what she will. She wanted to be accepted by those she must live among and to do so she must brazen it out; for my sake. As for her own she would have ridden away.

As they ate, Phaila pushed the food around her plate while he watched under his lashes; she was haunted still.

“I want to go to Lindon,” she said finally, and waited for the storm. She needed to get away from Lórien . Already.
Haldir put down his fork. Measuring her. Be easy. She felt uncanny tonight.
“I want to bring some things here,” she said setting her own fork aside, “see to my house,” she picked up her wine cup, lifted it to her lips and drank.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, “Eat,” he commanded, “you’re too thin.”

Phaila sat looking at him, studying him.
“Is that wise?” she asked her tone dissuading.
He cocked his head at her.
“Do not ask questions if you cannot hear the answers. Do not look upon what you cannot bear to see.”
“I do not know what I can bear to see or hear, we’ll have to find that out.”
Phaila sipped her wine, “I won’t be reproached,” a purr of a warning fell into the glass, deepened in the wine.
“No.”
“I would spare you this,” she took up her fork, but did not eat.
“I know.”

It took twenty days to ride to Lindon.
They rode south past Fanghorn forest. They had paused to look at this old wood full of sounds and secrets before the time of the first born. Phaila and Haldir shivered under the stare of the woods. They skirted the forest, preferring it to the openness of the West Emnet, and were unable to bring themselves to enter the formidable wood, despite the enormous curiosity, the hair had stood on the backs of their necks, and laughing at their fear they backed away from its shadows.

She took him along the North-South Road across Dunland to Swanfleet a place he had ridden by but never stopped to investigate, and stood open mouthed at the beauty. Phaila swept her arm before him showing him the marsh, like no other marsh, home to the swans of Middle Earth. He wept at its beauty, and Phaila, smiling, kissed him softly.

They crossed the Brandywine on the ferry.

The closer she got to home, the brighter Phaila burned. They rode through Hobbiton, and he met his first Hobbits. And they had looked up at him, pointing and whispering, he was breathtaking in looks and stature. They were suspicious of strangers but in awe of elves. Phaila they recognized having ridden through a thousand times. She paused to speak with those she knew from stopping for water, something to eat, or to sit in their tavern and have their famous ale, hear their news. They were founts of information tho they did not realise it.

She insisted that they pause for this, though Haldir was uncertain, he found that the Hobbits, while generally shy by nature after a few drinks were quite friendly. And babbled incessantly, making Phaila smile over their heads as Haldir tried to keep up with their barrage of questions. They stood so closely, and he would back away one step at a time until they had him against the wall and completely disconcerted while Phaila laughed into her cup and left him to sort it out.

“Should we buy some on the way home?” she asked leaning across the small table they sat at outside, her long neck arching toward him.
His chest puffed at the word home, their home.
“Yes, some for home,” he lifted the mug, and she drew a nail across his throat, and then caressed it with her thumb. He caught her wrist and kissed her palm.

They forded the River Lhûn, and Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, loomed. They camped beside the Forland, and so close to home Phaila was incandescent, unable to sleep. Haldir made love to her until she fell away exhausted. The last day they pushed on to her home by the sea.

“There it is,” she pointed, her voice excited, “There is my house.”

A sprawling U-shaped, two-story house of gray stone, it’s red roof showing through the boughs of two great and ancient oaks. Haldir’s heart sank. This was the home she had shared with Amaras.

“And there lives Alanor, the March Baron of Lindon,” she pointed to the fortress built at the western foot of the Blue Mountains.

At the walkway they dismounted and unpacked their horses, and took the flagstone path. A tomb of black stone stood beside the cliff, roses open to the cool autumn sunlight.

At the thick oak door that arched up and wide he paused, dear gods, this house is immense.

It was an enormous house as Haldir was shown. The great room with a huge fireplace, which possessed a commanding view of the sea, the floors old polished oak.

She showed him the kitchen with a sluice running to the bath next door, allowing hot water to be poured from the channeled pot on the stove (Amaras’ idea for when he was away), saving her from having to haul the water to the great tub which drained to a stone conduit that led to the sea, the bath having a private staircase that led to the master bedroom above and the walk in pantry the size of a room its self, below the kitchen were stairs down to a wine cellar and storeroom.

Three guest bed and bathrooms occupied the same floor, and a great hall with a fireplace large enough for a tall man or elf to stand in and stretch his arms out both front and back and not touch stone. A gallery full of covered portraits ran the length of the south of the house.

All of the rooms were richly appointed, the furniture crafted well and with much care, the sideboards filled with fine goblets, stacked with plate fit for nobles, the rugs thick and costly. Haldir wondered from where the wealth came.

She took him upstairs past the minstrels gallery open to the hall below and on to the north wing of the house with two more guest and bath rooms, and the master suite. The north, east and west walls windowed filling the room with light, providing an excellent view of the sea and possessed a bed large enough to sleep four and a stone fireplace; he smiled at her.

The south wing contained the library, two more guest bed and bathrooms, and a solar. She led him into the great library as large as the hall below stairs, filled to the rafters with books, rolls of maps, and made comfortable with two deep, soft chairs before a great fireplace, a huge bearskin between. Above the fireplace was a portrait covered to protect it from the dust. Against a bank of windows stood a wide desk, with pots and pens and a silver candle holder made from the skull cap and antlers of a deer…a very large deer for it spanned the entire front of the desk.

She brought up a bottle of wine from the cellar and two glasses and opened them on the bearskin rug while Haldir lit the wood stacked on the grate. He was trying very hard to feel at home, but this was not his home, never had been and never would be. This house was beyond him; he who was accustomed to smaller, more humble dwellings. This was too imposing in its’ scope and magnificence and watching her move casually among the furnishings, the rooms …. He saw just exactly how out of tune he was with her. How could he have ever guessed? Her manners were fine, polished, secular, but who could have known it was from her own roots that she drew this and not her exposure to court?

He sat on the floor and looked through the books she pulled down, stacking beside him, the ones she was wanting to take and fill their library at home with, for she could not take them all. Haldir saw that this would be hard parting for her and sorrowed that the library he had had built was far too small to accommodate her.

“What can I have been thinking?” she asked wrapping her arms around him, crouching down beside him on the rug, “All of these books…no one would have time to read them all.”

Haldir knew that they were her treasure and loved her for her soothing words. There are some lies a lover may tell that one is grateful to hear; for they are not truly lies but comforts, and proofs that one will lie themselves on the bonfire and burn away the superfluous for love.

She took the goblet and drank looking at him over the rim, stood and walked back to the bookcases.

He smiled running his hands over the leather bindings, they were fine books.

The book fell open to a page and he read out loud,

“Love is a breach in the wall,
a broken gate.
Love sells the proud hearts’
Citadel to fate.”

Phaila stood, a book in hand looking blankly down on the pages.

This was the poem that Amaras would recite to her whenever they had disagreed and he was trying to make up. An image of him crawling across the bearskin rug to her as she sat in a chair holding a thick book in her lap, angry with him. His dark hair swinging heavily over his shoulders as he took her calf in his hand, rested his chin on her knee. Amaras was never too proud that he could not humble himself for her sake.

The sound of hooves brought them to him to his feet, smiling Phaila walked to the windows and flung one open.

“Alanor!” she hailed from the window to the gray haired man who sat on a tall red horse, flanked by eight men.

She ran from the room, Haldir following slowly. Ah, and how would this go? The lover meeting…their voices drifted to him, and he stopped in the doorway, to see Alanor holding Phaila’s hand.


“The smoke from your fire alerted us that you had come home,” he beamed, and leaned forward and kissed her offered cheek, her due, “It’s been too long, Griffin, since you have been here. I have brought food, I know your kitchen is empty…unless you would come to the …” his eyes were drawn to the door behind her.

“Oh,” Alanor let her go, his eyes flicked the tall golden elf standing in her wide doorway, looking guarded.

“Alanor, may I present Haldir, Warden of northern Lórien ,”

Alanor inclined his head to Haldir who made his sweeping elven gesture, and stood looking at these men.

“Ah,” Alanor smiled discreetly at Phaila, “Well,” and he laughed joyfully, “We will leave you then, but how long are you staying?”
“Only long enough to arrange for some things to be sent to Lórien ,” She held the man’s hand in her own. And looked fondly into his face.

Alanor motioned and the man with a basket, which he held out to Phaila. She took it smiling.

“I will have it done for you,” Alanor looked at Haldir, the elf’s face was indecipherable, the gray-blue eyes looking back watchfully, “Send up when you are ready. It is good to see you,” he kissed her cheek again, stepped back, and inclined his head to her.
“Please say good-bye before you go,” He smiled and turned to Haldir, “Haldir.”

Haldir tilting his head, made the sweeping gesture.
“Thank you,” Phaila called.

They watched the men mount and ride away.

“I’m so glad he brought this, I’m starving, aren’t you?” she hefted the basket and putting her hand on his back, walked through the door.

On the bearskin, before the fireplace, Phaila unpacked the hamper as Haldir sat across from her.

“Mmmm,” she unwrapped the thick slices of beef, the roasted squash, carrots, and still warm bread. She leaned across the food and kissed him, “Plates,” and rose to her feet.

She returned and knelt beside him her hands full of plates, cutlery, and more wine. Haldir laughed taking the plates and the flatware piled on top, he had learned that she would rather break a cup from the amount she carried in order to not make a trip. Phaila wrapped her arms around his chest, and nuzzled his cheek, and then nibbled his ear, bringing gooseflesh up on his arms.

“I thought you were hungry,” he whispered huskily catching her face in his hand, kissing her.
“I am,” she kissed his hand.

Through dinner, Phaila fondled and caressed him, distracting him from his thoughts on the house and its meaning, making him shiver, his clothes felt too tight, and he was getting hot. She fed him with her fingers, eschewing the fork. She sat facing him, her legs draped over his, tearing the meat, feeding him then herself. Holding the cup to his lips, then to her own while he bit her neck. Phaila loosened the ties on his leggings and reached down. This was enough; Haldir pulled her up, her legs around his waist and stood. He carried her up the stairs to the bedroom.

In her great bed, that could’ve slept four, he tore at her clothes, then his own and she had submitted to his rapacious need. He had desired to over-power her, being in the home she shared with Amaras, and when he came back for her it would again and this had added already to his insecurity and jealousy at the happiness he knew they had shared, the expectations, the plans, and she had allowed him, submitting with a little struggle to save his pride, but not so much as to taint him later when he thought on it.

Much had been mended by time but he had restrained his natural inclinations, and himself; moving him to be gentler, for fear of bringing to the forefront that fateful violent night that had been pushed behind them. His passion had been curbed by this fear, and fear again tonight moved him to grasp her roughly, hold her tightly as if she would slip through his fingers and disappear on the wind that moaned in the branches of the trees overhead.

He reared over her, sitting on his heels and dragged her hips over his thighs, arched his back and roared out his release to the rafters.

But he had paused when they rose from the bed and saw the bruises on her golden skin. She examined the marks he left on her while he stood watching, his jaw clenched ashamed and astonished at the depths he had sunk as she touched a particularly dark bruise on her shoulder before the mirror. She was a born and bred a warrior, a warriors wife and now warriors consort, and his honour was hers and would say that it was necessary.

She had pride as well, and he saw the smile on her lips and the light in her eyes as she remembered when each mark was left. Haldir touched the worst bruise and murmured softly, but her eyes met his in the mirror and she had only smiled. Do not reproach yourself. It was necessary.

She did not choose out furniture, had sorted through the linens and towels taking little, left her plate and glass, the fine cutlery, and then she addressed her wardrobe. She had a quite a few gowns, which might have surprised him if he had not seen the red velvet and sable robe which revealed another life. Here again, she took very little. Leaving him with the understanding that she would return here, and saw no need to drag it out, only to have to resend it later from whence it had come. Practical, and calculating. And so cold in deliberation he turned away.

Alanor had sent men with crates which she filled with what she had decided on, and then together they rode to the village before the fortress to shop for their dinner. It was a place where elves where seen often and they drew no looks of curiosity, but were spoken to respectfully and with much deference, and he was happy for her sake though she had drawn back shyly having been so often mistreated.

He woke to find himself alone in the bed. Oh my sweet and gentle Phaila… Throwing back the bedclothes he padded to the window and looking out saw nothing but the open expanse of a black ocean, whitecaps catching what light there was from the distant stars. Wrapping his cloak around him, lighting a candle with a spill from the fireplace he walked from the bedroom to the long hallway.

No light shone from under closed doors yet he opened each one as he walked silently. Past the minstrels’ gallery onto the south wing, more doors, more rooms all vacant, they must have entertained often and many. Where are you? In the solar, he turned and walked back the way he’d come and down the wide stairs, and turned right, stopping briefly at the two oak doors that led into the hall, pausing to listen and heard only the deep groan of the trees bending in the wind. On he walked past the covered portraits on the wall, opening doors as he went only to double back.

Entering the library he found the fire burned low and the portrait drew his eyes. Standing before the fireplace he reached up to the covered portrait and drew off the cloth. It was of Phaila and he drew in his breath with a gasp. She had been painted sitting in a tall-backed chair, leaning on the arm she was dressed in a scarlet gown, low cut revealing the mounds of her smooth breasts, a sable stole draped her arms, her hair was pulled back from her face, dressed with a low coronet of gold and pearls set among the honey of her hair and it perfectly captured her brava with the tilt of her head and the slight smile on her lips. She was looking past the artist, large almond shaped eyes touched with her smile and something else. It was no mystery to him who drew her gold green eyes.


He covered the portrait and stood looking into the low flames. He walked from the library, his heart in his stomach, much disturbed by the painting and this huge house. Gods, how can she bear Lórien and the small talan she shared with him? The house smelled of the sea, was chill and the sound of the ocean was indeed audible even at this height, and then the two great oaks moaned overhead. It was a home that moved and breathed; the chill and the scent of the sea drew one to the bed piled high with heavy furs. The groaning trees mimicked the soft sounds of lovers locked together.

A fear had gripped him, irrational as most fears were and a jealousy flared as he walked the wide stairs and on to the master bedroom. Closing the door he tossed his cloak on the chair and went to the fireplace, tossed more wood onto the fire and stood jabbing at it with the metal poker sending sparks up the chimney. Dropping the poker with a clang on the hearth he went back to bed. Sitting he grabbed all of the pillows and pounded them into a mound, threw himself back, pulled the heavy fur up and lay waiting.

Where are you, my love? His anger turned at the soft purple of early morning. Surely you have not spent this night in the tomb of Amaras and the lost child? Do you walk the cliffs? Is there a path down to the slim stretch of beach below? What calls to you? What breaks your peace?

The door opened quietly and without looking to see if he were awake or asleep she entered and closed the door behind her. She was dressed, wore a fur lined cloak against the cold night wind. Her hair in one long loose braid was ruffled, and her cheeks were flushed. She walked softly to the fire and removed the brooch that held the cloak closed, and slid the heavy fur from her shoulders. She lay it on the chair over Haldir’s cloak of thick wool and put the brooch on the mantle. She pulled her gloves off and they too went into the chair. She held her hands out to the fire, rubbing them.

“Where….”

She jumped at the sound of his voice. This reaction startled him. And she laughed.
“Did I wake you?” she asked and turned back to the fire, sat on the hearth.
“I have been awake, where have you been?”
She sat a moment before replying, rubbing her hands before the fire, “Speaking with Alanor.”
“On what, Phaila that it takes all night?” his voice was angry and resentful and he snapped his jaw shut over it, hating this insecurity.
“On things that do not concern you,” she answered angrily herself. She was not accepting of being questioned.
“If it takes you from my bed it concerns me,” he threw back the heavy furs and stood.
“I am tired, can we not do this another time?” she asked and stood herself, pulled the tunic over her head and tossed it on the chair.
“Do not dismiss me,” his voice deepened, “I am no servant.”
“No, you are not,” she walked by him and crawled on the bed, “Nor am I to be spoken to in such a manner.” She sighed, “Please lie down with me,” she turned on her side and looked at him before rolling on to her back where she began to slowly unbutton her shirt of soft wool. “Please my Haldir, I am very tired and will rest easier if you are with me,” she held her hand out to him. “You look very tempting standing there…” she smiled a sleepy smile.

He did not want to be angry, and he did not want to be angry with her. He did not want to feel so lost in this great house on the cliff above the sea. He did not want to ache with uncertainty every time she walked through a door. He lay down, gathered her in his arms.