The Phoenix's Griffin

Ndy hdy has ever measured
Not even poets
How much the heart can hold. – Zelda Fitzgerald

In Lothlórien they began to fall into a rhythm. The shyness she had in his home, was falling away from her as she tried to make it her home as well, high in the golden tree.

It was peaceful and time.

She knocked on the door of Rúmil and Orophin’s talan. Orophin opened the door and stood staring for a moment.

“Orophin,” she smiled.
Orophin inclined his head.
“Is Rúmil home as well?” she asked looking behind him.
“Um, yes, oh,” he stammered, held the door open, “Please, come in.”
She kept her inscrutable smile and stepped through.
“Who is i…” Rúmil entered the room, book in hand and drew up.
“Phaila,” Orophin said turning to his brother with a surprise arched eyebrow.

They stood and looked at one another as the air filled with tension.

“I have this for you,” she held out a bottle of wine which Orophin took. “And an invitation to dinner, if everyone can agree on a night,” she cocked her head.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea…” Rúmil began.
“Really?” her voice playful, “why is dinner not a good idea?”

The brothers looked to one another their thoughts flying between them.

“I see,” she watched the non-verbal exchange of ‘You.’ ‘No, you!’

“I care not what you think of me, but,” she held up a finger, “But you must back Haldir, right or wrong. You are his brothers, the only family he has. He needs you despite himself.” She got to the point neatly, “We must be friends for his sake. Come for dinner. Come for Haldir.”

The brothers stood before the tall, honey coloured Morrigan who looked back at them unflinching of their opinion of her, asking for the sake of her lover’s peace.

“Tomorrow night?” Rúmil asked.
“As you wish, come at sunset, if it suits.”
“It does,” Rúmil smiled at her, she certainly didn’t lack for temerity.

Haldir sat in the chair before the fireplace and stared when she told him, leaning back against the mantle, cup in hand, booted ankles crossed.
“Why did you do that?”
“You are a miracle,” she laughed.
He rolled his eyes and leaned forward in the chair and looked at her, parted his lips to speak. How could she would take things into her own hands without consulting him? It was not her way, and had never been; the consequences of these actions remained to be seen. His jaw snapped shut and he sat scowling up at her.

“It’s done, put on a better face tomorrow.” And she leaned down, kissed him and patted him on the cheek, and gave a high laugh when his scowl deepened.

“Oh, Haldir,” she straddled his hips and settled down across his lap, put her cup on the table beside the chair and took the chair back in her hands, “I miss my brothers,” she said simply, “There is nothing they could have done that would have removed affection or forgiveness from my heart.”

He lay his hands on the small of her back and ran them up to her shoulders, then onto her outstretched arms.

“Do not make me the source of your contention, I could not bear it,” she pleaded gently.
“No,” he whispered and leaned toward her wrapping her in his arms.


Rúmil and Orophin arrived promptly at sunset, golden hair sleek and braided. Haldir met them at the door. The three brothers looked at one another in uncomfortable silence. They had not spoken outside of duty since that day in the woods. Haldir felt an urge to close the door, but set his jaw instead, the specter of Phaila’s two dead brothers moved him to make an effort.

“Come in,” Haldir stepped aside.

He closed the door. “She has us on the loggia,” he said and not knowing where to start to explain his love and her ways; did not attempt to.

They followed him through the great room to the stairs that led upstairs and onto the loggia that ran the length the of the upper story of their private rooms.

She had used the plate, glass and cutlery she had rummaged from Haldir’s kitchen, spread out atop a cloth of red and topaz damask. Bees wax candles burned in silver candlesticks. The petals of night blooming jasmine had been strewn on the cloth for their scent. Two bottles of wine were open.

The moon-flower seeds she had brought months ago had sprouted and erupted, taking the trellis over, their heart shaped leaves thick, the white flower open filling the cool evening with their soft creamy scent.

“Good evening,” Phaila said from the door behind them.
“Good evening, Phaila” Rúmil said his eyes sliding to Haldir.
“Good evening,” Orophin smiled shyly.

Haldir stood blasted to the spot. This explained her lying out his clothes of golden hues, she wanted him to dress to compliment one another. He had not asked, and she had not said. But it was always thus. And she was right. She talked all the time; he did not listen hard enough.

She stood dressed in a gown of garnet coloured, brushed velvet. Nothing like the loose gowns he was accustomed to seeing, even at court. The stiff, embroidered collar lofted stiffly as high as her chin before fanning out, the décolletage wide, exposing her exquisite collarbones, and deep revealing the swell of her honeyed bosom. It fit her tightly from shoulder to hip and then gathered to fall into a short train behind her. The sleeves sheathed her long, lean arms; falling to the middle her hands. Her hair pulled away from her face, curled loosely, dressed with pearls, and rubies. A necklace of diamonds the size of peas lay below the hollow of her throat and danced at her lobes. She wore the Griffin signet, a band of garnets, and the band meant to be her wedding ring from Haldir she wore but on her left hand. As did he.

“Please,” she stepped out onto the loggia, “take your seats,” she smiled and held her hand out toward the table; a regal gesture.

“How are you this evening, Orophin?” she asked, he was the shiest of the three; and took up a bottle of her wine.
“I’m very well, thank you,” he smiled and watched as she poured the claret into his goblet, “And yourself?”
“I am most excellent,” she smiled, lowering her eyes to look at him.

Haldir sat back and began to observe her. This was going to be most enlightening.

“It’s a lovely table, Phaila,” Rúmil complimented her.
She turned and walked around the table to fill his goblet, “I am glad that it pleases you,.”

Haldir looked at the table. She was accustomed to finer things, a finer home, but she had taken what she had found, and obviously purchased, combined it and using imagination transformed it to something odd and crudely refined.

“It is a lovely table, my heart,” Haldir said as she stood on his right to pour wine into his goblet, he put his hand on the small of her back. She touched his face gently witol fol fingertips, before walking to the end of the table and took her seat. The three rose in courtesy.

She stretched out her arm and poured wine into her own goblet.
“I hope everyone is hungry,” she spoke softly, watching the wine flow from bottle to glass, turning her head to the door she nodded.

Five young maidens entered bearing platters. Dinner had begun.

“I noticed you read, Rúmil, I have a library I can show you, and if you wish to choose out a book or two…” she offered as she served herself from the platter, manipulating the forks easily from much practice.
“I would, thank you,” he said surprised.
“I am afraid that my tastes run toward histories and some poetry, I think, perhaps, you will find something that amuses you,” she put the forks back on the platter.
“I love histories.”
Orophin groaned, rolled his eyes.
“Orophin doesn’t read,” Rúmil explained.
“What do you like?” Phaila asked taking a portion of roast carrots.
“I like to hunt.”
“And what do you like to hunt?”
“Deer, boar.”
“There are boar in these woods?” she asked intrigued.
“Oh yes.”
“I haven’t hunted boar in ages,” she mused, and poured sauce over the venison.
“I was thinking of hunting again soon, would you care to join me?” he asked. The brothers had had a long aft after she had left, as she suspected they would and had agreed that for all of them, they should make an effort to get to know one another at the least.
“I would, thank you and I promise not to get in your way.”
“Boar is too …” Haldir began to protest, remembered who, what, he was talking to and fell silent. The gown had wooed him away from always seeing her the Morrigan; as was intended.
“Tough to eat? I suppose it is,” Phaila offered handing the sauce to Orophin, “How do you prepare it?” she asked him.

Phaila kept up the conversation, asking questions, working very hard to draw them from the awkwardness of matters not ideal.

The table was cleared, more wine brought out, and at last everyone actually leaned back in the tall ornately carved, and velvet covered chairs.

Rúmil sipped his wine, and looked at his brother’s lover over the rim.

“The air hangs heavy with questions,” she smiled into her goblet, her voice lilting in the night.
Rumil, Orophin and Haldir exchanged looks, Haldir shrugged indifferent.
“What can you tell us about … being, well being a Morrigan?” he finally got out.
Haldir shifted in his chair and looked to Phaila, let her deal.
“What would you like to know?” she asked and played with the diamond at her ear.
”Well, how did you decide to become one?”
She sat and thought for a moment “I don’t know how to sew,” she said as if putting a needle and thread to cloth was beyond her intellect and Haldir laughed, snorting wine. He covered his mouth with his napkin as Phaila met his eyes over her goblet.

Smiling, Phaila rose to her feet and took the wine bottle up, refilled the glasses.
“It seemed the natural course for me, my mother was a Morrigan, my father a general and there was an aptitude, the alternatives were not appealing and I believed,” she spoke as she poured.
“Do you not still believe?”
“My faith in the Morrigan is not shaken.”
“But your faith in….?”
“Man,” everyone nodded with their own reasons.

“And elves,” she smiled at Haldir’s elbow, “being half of both lends me a spectacular view, and grants permissions, but do not ask me to explain, we are trying to be friends,” she laughed and walked back to her chair, “No politics, nor religion,” she held her hand palm facing them.
“Ah now, you cannot make a declaration such as that and then ask us not to question what you mean by it,” Rumil cocked his head and with the hand that held his goblet pointed a finger at her.
“I disagree, but as you wish,” and she waited.
“Why have you lost faith in men and elves?” Rumil asked finally, smiling.
“Mordor,” she answered and leaning over the arm of her chair she dangled the goblet with her fingers
“I should think Mordor would restore a lost faith in man and elf, for the alliance alone,” Rumil hummed.
“I do not have your charity,” her voice had deepened slightly, “but is this really a discussion for tonight? Perhaps another, I do not want to dwell on something so … ridiculous.”
“Why ‘ridiculous?” Haldir asked, “I would think tragic,”
She smiled faintly again, “Ridiculous. You must believe me in this. Ridiculous in its’ absurdity. For the lack of one action this will go on and on, and grow in such scope and magnitude that Mordor will look like a shoving match in the market.” She drank from her glass.
“Were you there?” Orophin asked softly remembering back.

Phaila regarded the damask cloth, “After.”
“So was Haldir. After.” Orophin nodded, and thought on her husband who had been going on to Mordor. So she had gone to recover him, bring him home.
“I did not know this,” she raised her eyes to Haldir and he held her look.

“This is what happens when too serious discussions are made,” she raised her glass to her mouth, drained it, and filled it again; they had all grown silent.

“How many battles have you been in?” Orophin asked and Phaila laughed.
Phaila laughed and wiped from her chin the wine she had burbled when she laughed, “I did not think to keep count.”
“And you have seen much of the world?”
“Too much, I think sometimes, sometimes, not enough,” she smiled.
“Where is the most beautiful place you have ever been?” Orophin asked, he was feeling friendlier toward the Morrigan, his shyness slipping from him.
“Ah, my home, Lindon.”
“Tell us,” Rumil commanded gently and poured more wine into her glass.

Haldir sat with a faint smile watching as Phaila described, less prosaically to them, Lindon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weeks later she rose in the blue velvet of predawn and dressed quietly. Haldir woke having rolled for her in the bed.
“What are you doing?” he asked sitting up, sweeping the hair from his face.
“Hunting with Orophin,” she answered and sat to pull on her boots, “I told you…”
“I had forgotten,” he watched as she combed her hair with her fingers before braiding it back into a single tail. She took up her cloak, pulled the quiver and bow from the peg on the wall and walked to the bed to give him a kiss.

She walked to the door and pulled it open, it was raining and a cold wind blew in. She turned and looked at him, half in shadow, and half in firelight.

“Go back to sleep,” she smiled, and closed the door behind her leaving him sitting with his heart thumping in his chest. Why he did not know.

He lay down hugging her pillow infused with the smell of her against his chest and lay watching the rain fall heavily

She returned at noon. He sat in the bedroom, reading a book and listened as she trotted up the stairs, through the great room, then the kitchen, mounted the stairs, walked quickly along the loggia and burst into the bedroom. Her hair was plastered to her head, a loose strand on her cheek, completely drenched and pink cheeked. She kicked the door shut behind her as she slid the quiver strap over her head, set it on the floor and crossed to him quickly put her hands on the arms of the chair leaned over him kissing him, wet braid falling over her shoulder.

“How was the hunting?” he asked catching the braid in his hand, keeping her bent over him.
“Terrible,” she laughed and dipped her mouth to his.
“You’re dripping on me,” he said against her lips.
“Let me go then.”
“I have a better idea,” he held fast to the braid and reached up his left hand and tugged at the laces of her tunic.
“What have you been reading?” she laughed taking the book from his hands to examine the pages he was reading.
“Nothing as interesting as you soaked through to the skin,” he whispered.


Their lives were quiet, too much so, he feared. She did not complain; instead found her own amusement in rising early for a long ride. Sun or rain; coming home to toss her cloak over the back of whatever chair was in the room she found Haldir, giving him a kiss and then throwing herself into the chair, stretching her legs before her smiling, her cheeks flush, pull off her gloves and ask him “What have you been doing?” She would produce a flower, or a leaf, or a feather and ask him to identify it for her. And he would invariably find her on the loggia, pasting it into a book, labeling it with the name he had provided and then do a sketch of the entire plant, or bush, or tree. The owners of the feathers were a more laborious task; one she took great pleasure in immersing herself.

He had never asked about the leather bound journals filled with her mementoes, but had flipped, guiltily, through one, one morning. She did not write in any form of language he knew, he gathered it was her native tongue. Pages and pages of her writing mixed among pasted in leaves, flowers and feathers. He stared at each word, looking for something that would decipher the language, looked for his name, anyone’s name, but he could not make it out.

Haldir set up buttes behind their home for her to shoot at, but she would never shoot against him, or his brothers who now made the effort of a weekly visit and for whom Phaila would dress herself and the table for.

This then meant a seamstress was employed for new gowns, and the mending of tunic, shirt and leggings. She had stared at Haldir when he asked what was wrong with the gowns she had, and she had laughed and then perplexed him with her explanation that time must pass before she could wear a gown again in their presence.

Two caskets of jewels that had arrived from the treasury of the March Baron of Lindon under a heavy guard and were open on the dresser for her to coordinate the cloth against. A king’s ransom lay spilled on the wood.

“You waste your court niceties on us,” he had said, looking at the bolts that lay on the bed and the matron who stood aside head bowed against a family dispute she felt was impending from merely the look on his face.

He watched her consider a multitude of replies, “I waste nothing on you and your brothers, my heart,” was her choice as she turned to examine the cloth.
“What’s this?” he asked taking his tunic old old from the bed.
“You were not meant to spy that out! I had in mind an idea to surprise you. Do you like this blue? You should always wear blue,” she held up a bolt of heavy sea blue velvet.
“No,”
“No? Do you not like this colour?” she held it against him, “it suits my heart, or would you prefer some other fabric.”
“No, you are not doing this. It is too much and is a waste…”
“It is a gift…” she smiled innocent to his growing embarrassment, holding the cloth against his chest.
“No, I forbid it.”
“For…?” her voice dropped several octaves, and she drew up to her full height.
“Will you give us a moment?” Phaila asked quietly, dropping the bolt on the bed and her seamstress slipped from the room.

Phaila followed her and closed the double door. She pulled the drapes closed and turned to face him; only she did not.

“Phaila…”

“I understand that you believe we are not equals,” she overrode him with a voice that was low pitched and slowly modulated and she did not look at him but rather somewhere around his knees.

She had thrown him, “What do you mean not equals, of course we are….” He stepped toward her, and she stepped back, eyes still tipped to his knees, wrapped her right arm around her waist, and stood with the fingers of her left hand touching her lips.
“We cannot be equals if you think to forbid me and before a stranger,” her anger was tightly but barely controlled. And it was a kind of anger he had never witnessed. Not even in the meadow.
“It was not meant in that manner,” he started to smile, and stepped toward her again.
“Then choose your words with more care, or modify your manner, Haldir,” she whipped the words out, stepping toward him suddenly, startling him in it’s abruptness and the threat it held, turned to the doors, snapped back the drapes and opened the door to the seamstress.
“I will not look at more today,” she said smoothing a piece of silk and smiled, “but will take what was already decided upon.”
“Very good,” the seamstress gathered her bolts of cloth while Phaila turned to her caskets and began putting the jewels back, closing their lids.

Haldir moved to stand beside her at the dresser. He cast a glance at the seamstress wishing she would move faster. Phaila walked round him, took down her quiver and bow from the wall, grabbed up her cloak from the back of the chair where she’d tossed it and followed the seamstress to the door. Haldir reached out and she cocked her head warningly at him, he drew back his hand thinking suddenly she would bite if he grabbed her and she trotted down the stairs.

From the loggia Haldir watched her run lightly across the dry grass, her cloak already pinned at her shoulder and she slung her quiver on.

Rúmil and Orophin arrived at sundown for the weekly dinner and walked in through the open front door. The house was dimly lit, and there was no sound. They were accustomed to entering into the smell of beeswax, apple wood burning in the fireplace, and braziers on the loggia and some flower mixed with the scent of dinner waiting to be served, and the sound of music or Phaila and Haldir talking, laughing.

They walked through the great room, the kitchen stood dark and empty and then onto the loggia and found Haldir at the table, bathed in the pink of the sunset, a goblet of wine before him, staring into the wood.

“Haldir?” Rúmil asked softly, “Haldir what’s happened?”
“We had a misunderstanding, she’s…” he gestured with his goblet to the woods.
“A misunderstanding?” Orophin prompted, knowing his older brother and his penchant for overstepping himself with individuals. This word translated into fight.
Haldir snorted into his goblet, “Yes, it’s too idiotic to go into.”
“Most misunderstandings are, but?”
“I forbid her to have a tunic made for me.”
“Forbid?” Rúmil asked nailing the word, “You forbid her?”
Haldir nodded.
Orophin and Rúmil looked to one another knowingly and sat down at the table.
“She said I must not think her my equal if I were to forbid her in front of a stranger,” he drank deeply and reached for the half-empty wine bottle that sat among four empty bottles before him. He offered the bottle but they waved it away.
“Wait,” Rumil held his hand out for the bottle, changing his mind.
“You know where the glass is,” Haldir said and Rumil stood, walked into the kitchen and came back with one of Phaila’s newly purchased goblets.

Smiling Rúmil poured himself the wine and shook his head, the more of Phaila he learned the more he liked her. She was the only one he knew who stood up to Haldir, effectively and wrestled him verbally, overthrowing him, and disarmed him with kisses and laughter Haldir did not attempt to stand over her, as he was want to do when he felt his authority challenged. It would be pointless, for while she respected him she had seen too much, done too much to be intimidated by her powerful lover. And for him to use a word on her that would have turned him wrong side out if used on him? Rumil saw now, what he had suspected for a long time, she understood Haldir much better than Haldir understood her. And this was too funny. Oh yes, he liked her very much indeed to drive his stoic brother so mad as to drink five bottles of wine while he waited for her return. Her return!! This must be bitter medicine for Haldir.

“How long has she been gone?” Orophin asked. He had grown quietly closer to Phaila as they stalked the woods. She was funny in her observances of others, always ready with a laugh, and found her a patient listener. Letting him come out of himself when he was ready instead of trying to force conversation, or confidences. Of Haldir she did not speak, but instead concentrated on him. It was a singular pleasure for the shyer of the trio who was overshadowed by Haldir’s power and Rúmil’s gregariousness.
“Before mid-day,” Haldir raised the glass to his lips.
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat, I can pull something together,” Orophin offered. He did feel for Haldir; seeing him as someone who simply did not grasp how roughly he treated others at times. He meant nothing, he felt, was only brusque in his delivery. With the male population this meant little, though he did brush up against some a bit too harshly, it was the females who had the most difficulty. Haldir had little patience with megrims. He was not a game player and found it tiresome and taxing, opting to withdraw and return slowly, hoping the message had gone across.

Haldir shook his head.

“You should have taken the tunic,” Rúmil laughed.
Haldir glared at him.
“What harm could it have done?”
“I should be buying for her, not other way round.”
“That was foolish of you to speak to her so,” Rúmil said and sipped.
Haldir growled, “You are the master of the obvious, of course it was foolish to speak to her so.”
Orophin rose and picked up the empty wine bottles and carried them into the kitchen.
“If you know then why this? And she’s out there tramping around the wood…it’s getting cold, Haldir, Gods, but you were always the absolute bastard when it comes to other’s feelings!”
“Do not start with me, Rúmil!” Haldir pounded his fist on the table top.
Orophin closed his eyes.
“No, I will start, you always do this!” Rúmil pointed his finger at him, “You run over people and then do not want to talk about it.”
“There is nothing you can say that I have not beat myself with already,” Haldir said, “Please, brother, let it lie.”
Rúmil was brought up short, Haldir never pleaded and this was most unnerving, and took the wind of argument from Rúmil’s sails.

At sunrise Haldir stood, done waiting; decided on finding her and dragging her home if necessary and walked quickly to the bedroom and came back with his cloak and quiver on.

“We will follow you,” Rúmil said and he and Orophin trailed him down the stairs.

Haldir found that after several hundred yards he could no longer track her. He crisscrossed her trail several times but then … nothing. Rúmil and Orophin found him and did the same; it was as if she had vanished into the air. They spread out and walked a grid for three miles. She had disappeared.

Haldir retreated alone to sit vigil in their bedroom before the fireplace with a cup of wine in hand. He sat bolt upright in the soft velvet chair. She will come home once her anger cools. Gods. Misgiving unfurled in his chest and he began to suspect that he had made a fatal misstep. He should have followed her immediately. He stood and walked to the windows, it was raining. Why had he not? Because something in her manner had indicated she was not bluffing and throwing a pout. He had inadvertently said the one word that she could not abide. She was over reacting; as he had in his embarrassment. He grew angry at this childishness. Let her spend the night in the cold and the rain if she desired it so, he would not step one foot out to look for her.

She was gone for three days, and he grew steadily more and more concerned. He was forced to abandon his look out, and resume his duties on the border, thinking she would come home, find it empty and do only the Gods know what. Rúmil and Orophin had been asked, sheepishly, to look in on the talan for any sign of her return and to, please, send him word.

He left the border after four days and came home, unable to stay away and found no indication of her having come back and he beat himself over the price of a tunic; his quick tongue, and then flogged her. Damn her and her pride! She was as touchy as a Prince! It was excessive of her to not allow him a moment to make amends. She did not react in the ways he had grown accustomed to in the maids he had dealt with before. They would have cried, or pouted trying to coerce him into relenting. Not she. But she was no maid. She reacted as he did when pressured. Well, I will not rush home again. I must master myself as she does.

He walked the border and at night sat on the hard flet high above the ground; his back against the tree to stare before him, rebuking his aching heart.

Ten days passed slowly, and Haldir’s short temper, and surliness did not improve with the movement of time, but worsened and those who had the misfortune of being assigned to this particular patrol with him were ecstatic when their tour was over, and celebrated by going en masse to the closest inn.

He crept home slowly, positive that she had gone for good; afraid she had fled. There would be incidents, would she bolt at every confrontation? His walk home was heavy. Yards from the talan he saw smoke drifting from the chimney in their bedroom and ran.

He opened the front door and found darkness. He fought the urge to call her name, it was too quiet. He closed the door behind him and walked quickly through the great room and kitchen, up the stairs and onto the loggia; yes, a fire burned in their bedroom’s fireplace, it’s glow bled through the open door; it was too cold for that, and he frowned as he stood in the doorway.

He unslung his quiver, unbelted his sword, and removed his cloak piling them on the chair beside the bedroom door, and quietly closed the door behind him.

She was asleep, curled in one of the deep, soft, velvet chairs she had pulled close to their small fireplace, the light warm in her face. A book lay on the floor beside a half empty glass of wine, a plate of bread, butter and honey. She had taken nothing with her when she had left. She wore one of his shirts; the sleeve hung over her fingertips and long woolen stockings against the chill wind that rattled the windows.

Moving the plate, book and goblet away he knelt before her. Her hair was freshly washed; the scent of sweet almonds drifted softly from the long ringlets he was always entranced by, a tendril fell over her face as she slept. Gently he brushed the hair from her face and her eyes fluttered open. Oh, there were purple smudges under her lower lashes she had not been sleeping either. His previous anger and heartache had evaporated at the door, and now he was filled only with elation, and oh, how could I have been so angry with her?

“Haldir,” she spoke softly her voice both happy and penitent; she moved to sit up. He lay his head on her abdomen, his arms coming up under the small of her back and under her knees. She had been gone seventeen days and he breathed her in with relief. He raised his face to hers, she had given him a lesson in humility and then crawled home herself to beg her own forgiveness for tears rolled fat, over her dark lashes.

“I did not mean….”
“Nor I,” she wiped her hands over her face. He picked her up, carried her to bed and stood beside the bed, quickly undressed before her eyes and crawled to her.

She took his shoulder in her hand and gently pressed him to lick. ck. Moving down his chest she lavished his chest with kisses, and small bites then to the right to take a nipple gently between her teeth, running her tongue over it at the same time, then trailing kisses the length of his abdomen as she went lower still and did something that banished all coherent thought from his mind, replacing it with nothing but a searing white pleasure.

Gasping, sighing and moaning under her ministrations he tangled one hand in her hair, the other grasped the headboard behind him, his hips moving up and down increasing in tempo, until his spine snapped him back like a bow drawn and he called upon the gods before the string broke releasing him to rise toward her gripping her hair with both hands now. He fell back into the bed weak, trembling and out of breath.

Haldir drew her to him tasting himself in her mouth.

He held her hair fisted in his hand and looked into her eyes. Never leave me like that again. But she would. And she would never come back.

“No more flight after an argument,” he panted, gave her head a slight jerk, she was not tender-headed and he had pulled her hair much harder in bed.
“No.”
“We talk it out.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, Haldir.”

They stirred at mid-day, not having slept over the last two and half weeks, and the nights’ reconciliation. Haldir lifted his head from the top of Phaila’s squinted in the light and moaned softly dropping his head back onto the pillow.
“I am so hungry,” Phaila said softly and kissed his chest, then curled her hand under her chin, “We need servants for mornings,” she rolled her head and looked toward the loggia and raised her hand against the too bright light, “afternoons,” she corrected, “like this,”
Haldir drew her to him, kissed the top of her head.
“What do you want for lunch?” she asked muffled against his chest.

He sat at the table in the kitchen as she stirred the onions, peppers and sliced ham into the already blended eggs. She wore her scarlet and sable robe, much too elegant for cooking in he thought as he drank his hot tea.

She would show early, he thought idly staring at her sheathed in the red velvet, if she consented. He had asked it of her when they made love, more than two handfuls of time, but she had not answered, and he did not press. Locked intimately together was no time for an argument to erupt. He shook his head to dislodge the thoughts.

She poured the concoction into the skillet and stood watching. She was not a bad cook, he smiled and crossed his legs. He loved when she made the eggs this way, but then she knew that. She turned it and waited again, drinking her own tea. She had studied what he liked and made it a high art bringing to the table always his favourite dishes, even introducing him to a few that he had not experienced before; one being this creation. She scooped it onto his plate and brought it to him. He smiled up at her as she set the plate before him.

“Thank you,” he patted her hip and took up his fork.
“You are welcome,” she kissed the top of his head.