The Phoenix's Griffin

He included her in his patrols of the north. He would organize the watch among his guardians and gathered they would stand and listen as he read out the roster, gave them their routes, Phaila not far, leaning against a tree, an air of other-worldliness about her as she looked inward, thinking her private thoughts, staying out of his way. Together they would then take their own route. The rest could make of it what they will. And they made much of Haldir’s consort for she kept him sweet tempered. They would smile and nudge when Haldir smiling allowed a last minute request for change in rotation. Yes, they agreed, she must bed him well to dampen that temper and remove the brooding from his brow. The Morrigan, who was friendly enough, droll when engaged in conversation, had sensed their uncertainty and gave them the wide berth. To Rúmil and Orophin no one spoke ill of her whom they considered their brothers’ wife. Honestly, no one could speak knowingly on her, and dwelling under the umbrella of Haldir’s protection and honour no one dared make something up for fear of it reng hng his ears. Indefinably odd as she was she kept him occupied and distracted; they counted their blessings and wisely kept their mouths shut.

There were grumbles at her presence, fleet tho it was for she and Haldir made their own way. Few deemed it bad form for his lover to warm his bed on the fences when they, mere under guardians, must leave wife or lover back and sleep on their own.

“It is his privilege,” he was defended, “can you not be satisfied that he dwells elsewhere than among us for two weeks? I seem to recall a few nights of you getting your head bitten off…well, then, leave it alone.”

But the damage was done when Phaila slid past them, her jaw set and eyes downcast.


“I do not think it wise for me to go with you on patrol,” she said as she sat before the fireplace cleaning her saddle, Haldir behind her in the chair. He had been idly wrapping a strand of her hair around his finger while reading a book.
“What? Why?” he set the book aside.
“It is unfair. The others leave their … families behind and serve alone on the fences, you must do the same and leave me home,” she said wiping the oil from the stitching along the seat.
He had not considered this and sat looking at the honey coloured curl wrapped around his finger.
“What was said to you?” he asked but she did not answer.

He sighed, it must be serious enough for her to bring it to his attention, and they had been oblivious and had roused a jealousy. There was sense to it.
“What will you do on you own?”
Phaila smiled setting the cloth aside and turned, propped her chin on his knee, “I will manage, do not concern yourself,” she reached up between his thighs and lay her hand on his hard stomach.
“I do concern myself,” he rumbled.
“I mean,” she corrected herself, he was angry that others were meddling and it had come to her and not him, “it is nothing to worry over, I will find something to occupy myself,” she rubbed her cheek against his leg, and looked up at him through her lashes, “I will miss you when you are gone, and it will be hard to sleep alone, but this is what you must do, my heart. It is necessary.”

He ran his finger over her short nose.
“They will regret this,” he assured her.
“Good,” she laughed and bit him high inside of his thigh, making him yelp in pain and astonishment and she looked at him innocently.
“Why did you do that?” he asked incredulously.
“Will it leave a bruise?” She asked back, a smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.
“Be sure of it.”
“Then you must be sure to let them all get a good look,” she scooted back as he moved menacingly from the chair onto the floor to crawl after her, “Haldir,” she warned smiling, crabbing backward on hands and booted feet. He lunged grabbing her ankle and jerked her back.

Phaila gave a squeak and rolled immediately onto her stomach and clawed for purchase on the wood floor, laughing as he pulled her to him, hands moving up her long, lean legs, parting them to slide along the outside of his knees then grasped her hips. He lay on her as she continued to laugh and struggle until he caught her by the chin and turned her head back for a long kiss.

In the morning there was a perfect, round bruise very high on his thigh, and one on his knee from the hard floor, and a particularly dark one on Phaila’s left hip that matched the fingers of Haldir’s right hand where he had dug them into her to hold her steady over him.

Phaila studied her handiwork and smiled mischievously anticipating no doubt the reactions that little mark would affect.

“You are late,” Haldir growled as Amrod walked from the path that led from his talan. Amrod froze, his eyes flicked to the Galadhrim who stood sheepishly assembled as Haldir read out the days rotation and group assignments. “I think you will find the Northeast to your liking these next two weeks.”

“I warned you,” Thorongil hissed, “no, you had to go on about it. Now look what you’ve done.”


Arriving home, after having spent two weeks away from her, Haldir bathed quickly in the stream and trotted up the stairs.

Phaila sat before the fireplace in their bedroom, dinner waiting, hot, spread on the sheepskin rug before her.

“Hello,” she smiled and poured wine into his goblet.

Haldir blinked and put his kit and weapons on the floor. Sitting across from her he looked at what she had prepared.
A roasted chicken, with buttered mushrooms, squash, a salad.
“Phaila!” he smiled surprised, and immensely delighted.
“You must be starving for something hot. Lambas,” she shuddered and cut into the chicken.
“Wait,” he held his hand out over the back of hers holding the knife.

She was obedient and sat looking at him as he raised up on his hands, leaned across dinner and kissed her.

Phaila dropped the knife and took his neck in her hands.

Unclothed they moved from bed to the now cooler dinner.

“Ah, now, the chicken is cold,” Phaila cut the bird, kneeling.
“I do not care,” Haldir laughed curling over her and leaning on her back, reaching around her to pick up a slice of meat. “This is fine,” he smiled, chewed.
“The salad is warm,” she smiled.
“My favorite, cold chicken warm salad,” he stretched out on the rug, his back to the fire.
“Then you are in luck, because,” she put a few slices of the breast on his plate, “that is exactly what we are having.”

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked as they curled together in bed.
“Nothing that will require a request for my immediate departure, why has someone said differently?”
Haldir laughed and scooted down in the bed, drawing her leg up his hip, “Gods, I do not want to know.”

Their days and nights were spent exploring one another, sounding each other out, plumbing the depths, for Haldir she would only reveal so much before sliding away, somehow at the last moment. He did not press her, he had learned. She loved him; he knew that, felt it continually in her silent gestures, and subtle affection. In their bed she moved to his will, harsh or gentle she submitted, initiated him to a handful of pleasures he had not experienced and pleased him to his soul.

In bed she did not talk of a future, or ask ho mao make promises, but he made them regardless. Drawing them from him as she drew his sighs, with no effort and no appeal for herself.


After dinner, Phaila played the small music box that she had brought from home, and Haldir sat fletching arrows. Rain fell competing in the air with the music. Phaila draped her arms across his chest, bending her head down and burying her face in his hair. He reached up and caught the back of her head in his hand keeping her there, turning for a kiss. She smiled and stood and worked to organise her books. She was distracted by them, charmed by them, finding one she had not opened in a while was to her as if she had happened upon a friend long parted. She would then pause and read, standing in the center of the library, or leaning against the bookshelf.

Haldir hummed softly to the tune, smiling contentedly, life had never been so peaceful …

Phaila dropped a book, and Haldir looked to see her staring before her. She blinked and gave a slight jerk. Haldir stood quickly spilling the arrows on the floor. What was happening, what had happened?

She turned her head slightly, listening to a voice that only she could hear and his skin prickled. The air grew eerie, full of sparks as it would during a lightening storm. And lightening did flash, thunder rolled a hollow sound. She stood a while longer, listening, looking inward and then she turned to him.

“I must go,” she said her voice soft, and she looked at him, eyes large with knowledge.
“Where?” he whispered, “Phaila where?”
“Annúminas,” and she walked quickly to the loggia, along it to the bedroom, Haldir close behind.

She pulled her leather bags from under the bed, and went to her wardrobe and began pulling out clothing she would need while Haldir stood in the door frozen by the look of fierce concentration on her face. She stood for a moment listening, thinking. She shuddered.

“Annúminas? It’s over three hundred leagues from here,”
“Mmm,” she was distracted and pulled from the stand her leather and plate armor, the mithril mail shirt, and the leather gloves whose palms were also mithril. She took the plate and leather greaves and checked the straps. She went to the window and whistled out for Zara.
Haldir drug his own bags from under the bed and also began to pack.
She looked at him, reached out to stop him.
“I’m going,” he shook her hand off.
She stood staring at him, considering.
“I’m going,” he answered the look and began packing.