The Phoenix and the Griffin

1108iii

She sat in her ceremonial robes of scarlet trimmed in sable. The newly made crown of gold, rubies and diamonds glinting in the torch and candlelight adorned her head. A crown her father had designed and had crafted for her.

“There has not been a countess of our house for a very long time,” he murmured, smiling and placed it on her head with his own hands. He stepped back, and bid her rise. He sat her in her own presence chair canopied under her cloth-of-state. Stepped back as their chamberlain called forth the highest ranking noble in their house who served her father to come and kneel.

She sat stiff backed as the barons made their allegiances to her and thought on Amaras and the plan that lay days ahead of them; a plan that would rip at the fabric of these oaths and all oaths after.

Phaila’s eyes drifted to her mother and father who stood watching as the haughty house barons bent on one knee and pledged to defend her to their deaths. Tears stung her eyes looking on them both. Her deception would break their hearts, but she must have her love and husband. Yes, the Valar play with us.

Her mother and nurse retired with her to her rooms and helped her change into the gown she would wear to the banquet that followed the coronation. The robes removed, the heavy crown replaced with a low coronet, the white gown now one of scarlet. Her mother touched up her hair; loosely twirled a stray curl, and reset one of the diamond pins in the mass.

Her mother smiled, and cupped her face in her warm hands.

“Remember when I told you; you would change much?”
“Igen, Atya.”
“You have.” Nurwen assured her, “You have grown more beautiful, and more accomplished.”
“Not that you are prejudiced in my favour,” Phaila smiled and kissed her mother’s lips.
“Not in the least,” her mother took her hand and led her from her rooms.

Curanor rose at his daughter’s approach, the court quieted, and he motioned to the musicians to play. Laughing Curanor walked swiftly to her and caught her up in his arms, lifting her, spinning her in a circle before setting her on her feet.

“That is the last time, I will do that, báty,” he wrapped an arm around his waist and took her right hand in his left, “Until you are betrothed, maybe at your wedding, and perhaps when you tell me you are pregnant.”

Phaila pressed her cheek against her father’s, “You are silly, Atya,” she asked with a catch in her voice.
“Igen, I am that tonight,” he smiled and leaned his cheek hard against her, “tho I should be sad. My last babe is grown and will marry and leave me.”
“I will always love you Atya, wherever it is I go.”
“And I you,” he kissed her cheek and blinked rapidly looking into her eyes, “wherever it is you go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

In her rooms, Phaila stood with Maltafuinien before her four wardrobes deciding on what clothes to take to the havens, all a ruse of course. In two days, she would ride out to the Havens to attend the wedding of her cousin Alatáriël whose father a courtier of Círdan’s who in turn offered his hall for the wedding. Its timing was eerie.

Her mother entered to see the progression of her packing.

“Ah, good you are taking the garnet, it suits your colouring,” her mother nodded over the gown on the bed, “Malta, be sure and take the necklace to match.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Maltafuinien nodded.
“And the scarlet, it comes up in you cheeks,” She reached around her daughter and plucked the sleeve of the gown she spoke of.
“Yes, Anya.”

“I hope it pains Círdan to see you,” her mother smiled and wrapped her arms around her daughter’s waist, leaned her chin on her shoulder.

Word had come earlier in the year that Círdan had taken up with a black haired beauty of whom ept ept almost as wife.

“I do not hope that, Anya, I hope he is happy to see me.”
“You must be a little harder, Griffin. Why take a no one when he could have had you?”
“Perhaps he loves her, I would not stand in her way and wish her only happiness, and the greatest of joys,” Phaila answered softly.
“You are too kind in a world that will offer you none.”
“I hope in the world I would create there would be an abundance of kindness, Anya. I would not like to start it on the foundation of someone’s tears.”

Nurwen turned Phaila to face her, brushed the hair back from her face.

“There will come a day, daughter when you will have to make a choice; your happiness or someone else’s’. I would have you choose for yourself.”
“Amen, Anya.”

Nurwen kissed her daughter’s forehead and quit the room.

Phaila sat down on the foot of her bed, stared unseeing before her. The Valar had spoken through her unknowing mother and given their blessing from her lips.

The morning of her departure arrived and Phaila stood before her parents who would be following in six days, allowing her reception in her new title without being overshadowed by their rank, while she would arrive three days before the wedding to not eclipse the bride.

Nurwen adjusted the blue scarf around her daughter’s throat and then smoothed the lapel of her long riding coat, touched her hand to the curls of the long loose braid.

“I will see you soon,” her mother kissed her forehead, “Present yourself well, there will be many eyes on you.”
“Good bye,” Phaila said softly, her voice, small.

“Good bye, báty,” her father smiled and kissed her cheek, and embraced her, “I love you.” He murmured in her ear as he held her tightly.

Padathir took her in his hands next and kissed her forehead, “I will see you in a few days.”

Phaila turned to Dagnir, “Well, Dags, a few days then.”

Dagnir nodded and wrapped her in his arms, “I will see you then.” Though he had the feeling, it would be a very long time before he saw her again.

Dagnir knew of Amaras.

~~~~~~~~1088iii nine years prior

He rode in the Ghost Oak Forest looking for his sister. Dagnir was bored, and hoped to find his sister who haunted the wood hunting or simply exploring. He looked for half an hour before turning his horse to the river thinking that perhaps she swam the warm river. He heard a male’s voice…no word, but a sound, a groan. He dismounted and dropped the reins on the ground, drew his sword. These woods were safe enough, but men, well men could be intensely stupid and one may have wandered in to poach and been poached instead.

He moved closer to the river, entering the denser mist that lay a gossamer veil, spreading diamond-like drops of moisture on the leaves of the oaks, ferns and orchids here. He heard panting, a sigh and moved stealthily forward, crouching low in the tall foliage. A cry; a growl deep and drawn out sounded. Dagnir smiled. That was no sound of pain, but one of pleasure. Someone from the fortress had slipped away with his lover. Dagnir grinned and inched closer. He would love to be able to tease someone over this.

There he could see skin through the green of the fern, golden in hue. Another groan that tapered into a laugh. Dagnir dropped to one knee and waited to see whom it was. Two voices mingled and his heart stood in his throat. Phaila! It was Phaila who had slipped away. Who was he?! Dagnir grew angry. Who would dare? His hand tightened on his sword.

Her lover stood, tossed back sable hair and looked down at her. The Tur-anion bastard Amaras! Has she lost her mind?

“Come feleség, come swim with me,” he offered his hand.

Feleség? Dagnir’s jaw dropped.

“Ah a swim, szeretett, and then something to eat? I am very, very hungry!” She was pulled to her feet stood with her back to Dagnir who quickly averted his eyes.
“Hungry? Did we sharpen your appetite?” He wrapped his arms around her, and nuzzled her neck, “or have we slipped and finally gotten you pregnant?”
“I could be pregnant,” she murmured, “now. You are most enthusiastic.”
Amaras laughed, “When the time comes, you will get much more than enthusiasm from me, kedevelt.” He scooped her up and carried her to the river.
“Hold tight,” he said and jumped into the water with her.

Dagnir’s mind whirled as he rode home, letting his horse choose its’ path. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Beloved sister, you have chosen your husband then, and he is not Círdan, nor Berindon but the Tur-anion bastard, our father will kill him for this…oh, Phaila what have you done?

Dagnir retreated to his rooms.

Coming to dinner, he sat beside his sister who was relaxed and glowing, chatted happily with their mother, father, and middle brother.

“What is it Dagnir, you are too quiet?” Phaila asked pouring more wine into her brother’s goblet.
“Nothing, something on my mind.” He smiled. Phaila reached between them and ran her hand through his hair.
“Anything you want to talk with me on?” She asked dropping her voice.
“Nem. Köszönöm húg,” he raised his goblet to his lips.

In his rooms once more, Dagnir prepared for bed, sat long in his bath unable to comprehend what she had done. First he must know the why of it, as his father always instructed. Find the heart of a motivation and all else will fall into place.

It came to him before dawn. She had been raised to be obedient, she knew her obligations, her duty was clear. She may have loved Amaras, but would marry as her parents bid. They had been angling to marry her high, and failing that to Berindon who would be raised to count to match her own rank. If she had kicked over the traces, as she obviously had, their father would disown her. Amaras would not get his hands on her inheritance. He knew this. She knew this. Her soul mate she could not turn aside to fulfill her parents’ wishes. Amaras would return with his father and an army if she were withheld from him. Failing an attempt to secure her, he would break his heart on their walls, die at their gate, and Phaila would follow. He had no doubt.

What now if Círdan asked for Phaila’s hand? And if not, what of Berindon? When this news broke will there be a collective stalk for the Tur-anion bastard’s head in redress?

How long? How long have they been bound? Since the failed reconciliation in the Havens, eleven years before? After?

“Have we slipped and finally gotten you pregnant?” Dagnir covered his eyes. Valar forbid!

How can she hope to get away with this? And you, brother, Amaras? Where will you take her to hold her? Back to Lund Daer to the fortress of your father? This will mean a resumption of open hostilities. The Ar-Feiniel and Tur-anion would hunt the other openly as they once did long ago.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the beamed ceiling. He would do nothing. He would say nothing to their Atya, nor their Anya. What of herself? Would she be grateful for someone to know? No. Let her keep her secret. Oh, sweet sister, be careful then.

~~~~~~~~1108iii

“You must ride back to Lindon,” Phaila instructed Maltafuinien as they rode out their first day, “You must be the one who sets them hunting for me. Let your fright to be your false grief. You must not quail, Malta. If you go to Círdan they will know that you are a conspirator and you will never be safe outside of the havens, again.”

On the forth night, Phaila sat in her dimly lit tent, her cloak of gray beside her and waited.

She had never caused her family one moment of grief or worry. And tonight she would break their hearts and betray every trust they had in her. They had nurtured a traitor against their breast, and anguish dined on her heart.

When the moon hung low in the sky Phaila crept from her tent, Maltafuinien watching with tear filled eyes. The cloak wrapped around her, the hood up she slid from shadow to shadow to the picket line and led away her mare, dragged on the saddle, buckled the bridle into place and walked her carefully and quietly further from the camp before mounting.

She rode hard for the last curve of the Blue Mountains. At her fast approach, Amaras rode out from the shadows of the great oaks as the first pink of dawn blushed.

Leaping from their horses Phaila ran into his spread arms. He caught her, buried his face in her hair, heart flutte, a , a trapped bird in the ivory cage of his ribs, he took her face in his hands. ‘There is no going back’ lay on his lips to say, ah, there was no need…
“Where are your weapons?” He asked breathlessly.
“On my saddle.”
“Come,” he took her wrist and pulled her to the horse. Wrapped in a nondescript gray blanket, tied to the cantle of her seat were her sword, long knives, the harness wrapped around them. He draped the blanket over the saddle, held the harness up, “Put them on, Phaila, and keep them on.” She looked at him over her shoulder. He answered her questioning look, “I do not expect you to raise your hand against your family, that is for me to do, but there is orc sign…”

“This far?”
“Yes, so we must stay in the open, too much I fear…”
“You fear nothing.” She smiled, fastening the buckle under her breasts.
He smiled back and ran his hand over her cheek, “I fear that if we do not get back in the saddle I will drag you into the forest, orc or no!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maltafuinien raised the hue and cry; her lady was missing. Phaila’s guard scoured the camp, found her tracks. Half rode back to alert her parents, Maltafuinien rode with them; frightened out of her mind.

Maltafuinien ran up the steps to the keep, down the gallery to the Great Hall and burst through the tall, heavy double doors.

Curanor and Nurwen jumped to their feet as she ran panting with fear toward them and threw herself down.
“Maltafuinien?” Nurwen asked confused, frightened at her daughter’s nurse come home in such a state of disorder.
“She is gone, Your Grace!”
“Gone?!” Curanor turned gray with alarm and fear.
“In the night, she disappeared…”
“Taken?” Nurwen gasped.
“No, Your Grace, it looked that she walked out alone, took her horse and rode away.”

Maltafuinien burst into tears resembling fear and sorrow for her lady.

Dagnir and Padathir rushed to their parents. Their sire turned away thinking, his face a mask of panic for his daughter.
“Padathir, call the guard, we will ride out to find your sister.”
“My girl! Where has she gone?” Nurwen wailed and her husband took her in his arms.
“We will find her feleség, we will find her and bring her home,” Curanor held her; she quaked with grief.

Dagnir’s lips parted. He was horrified at his parent’s grief and rightly so sitting on what he believed to have happened. His love for his sister closed his mouth. Run Amaras, Phaila. Run fast and ride hard.

“She met with someone here, Your Grace,” One of Phaila’s guards pointed to line of trees, “They rode from there and are riding north.”
“Who? Who would she meet?” Curanor asked anyone who may know, “Malta, you are her nurse and close to her. Has there been anyone who she has favoured?”

Maltafuinien shook her head, “No one Your Grace.”
”Padathir? Dagnir?” Curanor asked his sons, “where is Berindon?” He asked as a thought dawned.
“In the Havens where he is to attend the wedding, Atya,” Dagnir answered.
“Send someone to see he is still there!” Curanor shouted to one of his men.
“You do not believe he …?” Padathir asked wonderingly.
“He may have wooed her, persuaded her…” Curanor doubted Berindon would be so underhanded and at his father’s expense, “Set a guard on the Baron Amrod…”
“Atya, Berindon would not…”
“To be certain, Dagnir…” Curanor squeezed his son’s arm, “See it done, Padathir, I am trusting it to you. We follow the trail.”

They made their camps in the hills, and in forests, keeping to the public roads to obscure their tracks. Crossing the Brandywine Bridge they stopped in Buckland, changed the shoes on their horses, and found an inn to sleep a few hours before resuming their ride. Stopping in Amon Sûl, again at Trollshaws and making the final push across the Ford of Bruinen where the wardens of Rivendel confronted them.

“I am Phaila, Countess Ar-Feiniel, I would see Lord Elrond,” Phaila requested as the wardens on their own horses sat staring at the dusty and bedraggled pair of elves.
“This way,” the captain of the march gestured toward the wood and the spiraling city behind, and another keeper of the border rode quickly ahead.

Lord Elrond stood puzzled by the arrival of the Ar-Feiniel countess and her companion. He stood arms crossed, and watched as they approached on foam-flecked horses – they had ridden hard.

Phaila and Amaras slid from the saddles and approached the dark haired Lord of Rivendel. Inclining their heads they made the gesture of greeting.

“What has happened, lady? Have you had trouble?” Elrond asked coming down the steps, Erestor following closely.
Phaila stood and looked to Amaras, a smile creasing her lips.
“Not … yet,” she smiled then laughed.
“Are you not …?” Erestor looked at Amaras.
“Amaras Tur-anion, yes, Lord Erestor, I am he.”

Elrond’s court drew together and whispered. Ar-Feiniel and Tur-anion. Enemies. Amaras. Phaila. Countess. Bastard.
“We would have you bear witness,” Amaras spoke.
“Witness to what?” Elrond asked.
“I fear we will bring you much trouble,” Phaila stepped toward him, “but it must be, my lord. My family will be hot on our trail, and it will lead here despite our earlier precautions. Our urgency to reach the safety of Imaldris caused us to take the shortest and most public r.”
.”
“I do not understand,” Elrond shook his head.
“We wish you to witness our marriage,” Amaras stood beside Phaila, “we have been bound these twenty years, my lord, but we must have you acknowledge it.”

“Twenty years?” Elrond hissed incredulously.
Erestor took his arm the gravity of the situation beginning to bear.
“Yes, yes,” Elrond nodded and smiled then laughed.

They stood before Elrond and his court in the great hall of Rivendel, candles lit in the darkening of the night and a cold breeze blew.

“I take you, Phaila Ar-Feiniel as wife. I have no title to give you, only my heart and no home for you to rest your head, but my arms. I have only myself to give. Poor as it is, but Phaila, my brave one, one day,” he shook his bowed head, “I will …” Phaila tightened her hands around his and pressed her forehead against his to strengthen him. “Oh my gentle Griffin, take this ring,” he held it between thumb and forefinger, “as poor exchange for what you bring to me, but know, I will love you all of our days, and will seek your happiness in all things.”

He slid the heavy band over her forefinger. Her lips parted.

“A surprise,” he asked and put the band meant for him into her hand.

“I take you, Amaras Tur-anion as husband. Your heart the greatest of titles, your arms my bed.” She paused for tears closed her throat. “I will endeavor to be the grace of whatever home you build for us, be it blankets beside a fire with the stars our roof, the wind our walls and view it as a palace. Find the end of this ring, and you will find the end of my love.”

She slid his ring over his finger and he raised his hand to lay his palm against her cheek, ran his thumb under her eye to wipe a tear.

Elrond nodded over the hand-clasped pair.

“I recognize this marriage, as is my duty, and call on the blessings of the Aman, Manwe and Eru,” he held his hands over their heads.

Amaras drew his now lawful and irrefutable wife into his chest and kissed her gently, his hand under her jaw.

Elrond smiled over the pair. His wedding had been a civilized affair with the families gathered. He in his finest robes, Celebrían in virginal white though they had consummated their binding before the wedding. He smiled remembering how he had arched an eyebrow at her, and her eyes silently threatened him. How sweet those memories were, to be young and in love. Did he look on Celebrían with those same eyes? Did his voice quiver with emotion? It was an unfair comparison where he felt he suffered; these two had bound to one another twenty years ago and kept it secret. Valar! What cunning was employed that ensured such success? What a frightful love.

Would he have run with his bride if Galadrial and Celeborn had objected to him? Would she?

“We must leave you, my lord, for once this crosses the river the Ar-Feiniel will be most angry with you, and if we are here…” Amaras held Phaila tightly to him, brushed his lips across her forehead and closed his eyes thankful they had made it this far.

It was on Elrond’s lips to ask how their whereabouts could be ascertained so quickly, but there were spies everywhere.

“We will need fresh horses.” Amaras released Phaila from his grasp.
“I do not see the harm in staying one night, come, at least there is an opportunity to take a bath, change your clothes and eat while the horses are readied.”
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” Phaila took the tall lord of Imaldris in her hands and kissed him gratefully, while Amaras smiled sparking with ecstasy watching on, “I will not forget what you have done for us.”

A hot bath was quickly prepared as Phaila and Amaras went through their clothing trying to find something a little less dirty to wear, laughing, giddy; husband and wife in the open, the shying at doors closing and footfalls banished. They had one more flight to make and then they would be safe.

The danger and momentary reprieve heightened their excitement and in the bath, Amaras took Phaila, making love in the sloshing water.

They had slipped into alignment, the last pieces of their souls forged. There would be no more separations, no more rendezvous’ in the Ghost Oak forest; but gone now was her beloved mother and father, brothers and she cried at the deceit she had perpetrated on them all. Amaras tasted her tears in their kiss and raised his head. He held her tightly to his chest, one hand braced against the edge of the tub to keep from drowning her as she wept, clinging around his neck. Amaras held her making soft sounds of commiseration until she relaxed her grip on him and he lowered her to rest her back against the tub and moved down between her legs to look at her as she ran her hands over her face and look back at him with stormy eyes.

“The newborn cries,” he said softly, settling his chest between her thighs, his chin above her stomach in the water, his hands on the small of her back rubbing the taut muscles, “when she is brought from her mother; the only world she has ever known. This is that again, Phaila only it is into my arms you are laid.”

She stared at her husband through the steam of their bath, his dark hair drifting around him in the water, his sapphire eyes bright and solemn.
“I love you, Amaras.” She took a handful of his wet hair, and tugged him gently toward her.
“I love you more.” He smiled and rose up to kiss her.

Hair wet and braided back into the single tail Phaila and Amaras sat trying to eat under Lord Elrond and Erestor’s eye. Amaras watched her as well and grew more concerned by the moment for her hands shook so that wine sloshed from her goblet when she brought it to her lips. She smiled, “I do not know what is wrong with me,” she laughed embarrassed and hastily set the goblet down.
“You are starved that is what is wrong,” Amaras, answered sharply, angry that she was in such shape, and he held the goblet with his own trembling hand and she bent her neck to sip from the bowl.

“Make sure to pack food for them,” Elrond whispered to Erestor who quit the rooms.

“I was thinking my Lord, if it would not be too much trouble, I was thinking we could use a diversion,” she smoothed her hand over Amaras’ wrist and lifted her head.
“Anything,” he answered and came closer to the table.
“If you could send a sizeable troop north, in the direction of the High Pass, it may fool our pursuers into thinking we are headed over the Misty Mountains under an escort,” she picked up her fork and speared a small piece of venison, “I understand if you decline, you will get enough…”
“I will do it,” he answered cutting her off.
“I think we only need two days and the start will be enough to keep us ahead of them,”

This is what kept her restless in their blankets; he had put it down as over-excitement as he ran his hand soothingly over her. Even before their arrival, she had been plotting their escape. This was the Morrigan in her always looking ahead to the next maneuvers.

“I wish you would rest the night at least,” he shook his head at her.
“We cannot, my lord,” Amaras answered. His wife was right. They had caused trouble enough for the kind lord. They must keep moving, and they must reach the havens, “I wish to Valar we could for my wife’s sake, but we cannot.”

Elrond nodded, this was truth and looked on the hunger shaken Phaila. She would persevere. He looked to the mark on her neck before she turned her large eyes up to him. He shivered involuntarily.

He gave a smile, bowed, and left them to give orders.


Phaila ate shakily and the tremor slowly diminished, and she was able to hold her goblet without spilling the wine, tho Amaras did not mind in the least holding it for her. He could not take in through his eyes enough of her, every movement, every gesture, every turn of the head and arch of her long neck was poetry and song to him.

Rising from the table, they buckled on their weapons. Amaras reached over his shoulder and checked the drawing of his sword, ensured it would not hang up on another piece of leather, or the handles of his long knives. He slung the strap of his quiver over his head and arm. Phaila reached out and tugged at the buckle, then lifted her hand to tug the braid behind his left ear her eyes shining with adoration. Amaras caught her hand and pulled it down to bring her against his chest for a long kiss.

There was a knock at the door and Amaras called, “Come,” over his wife’s shoulder as he smiled into her face.

“I am sorry,” Arwen froze in the door.

“Your Highness,” Phaila gasped truly surprised to see her and gave a deep curtsey, Amaras inclining his head.
“I came to congratulate you,” Arwen smiled shyly at her and Amaras who stood with possessive hand on Phaila’s waist, “I also wanted to say…” her eyes went to Amaras who inclined his head and took their kits from the bed.
“I will wait for you with the horses,” he kissed her forehead and inclined his head again to Arwen and left them.

Phaila clasped her hands behind her back, and tilted her head at the dark young elf.
“I wanted to say that I am sorry, I am sorry I was not a better friend to you.”
Phaila smiled wryly and ducked her head, and if she had felt the inclination would have made another statement instead; “Ah, well, I am not an easy one to like.”

To Arwen Phaila while always a lady maintained a countenance of dangerous unpredictably in the curl of a half smile dwelling on her lips. Perhaps it was only the stigma of the Morrigan path she took for Arwen never saw her raise her hand in violence against anyone. Perhaps it was the taint of the bloody history of her family. It certainly did not help that Phaila wore long daggers, and the wicked elvish sword between her shoulders, when they arrived and not as ostentatious ornamentation but as weapons she could deftly wield.

They had seen her abilities in the archery field. Arwen stood jealous and humiliated; having herself been touted a fair shot only to find that Phaila, who trained hard and constantly was equal to their wardens. With the sword while not as strong, was skilled, agile, and audacious. She pitted herself against Erestor, drawing a large crowd as they clashed the blades of their swords together so hard that sparks flew. Phaila bound away laughing, held up her gloved hand, “Quarter, my lord, quarter!” And rubbed her right shoulder.

It was easy to fall into the gossip campaign against Phaila. She was too bold, a Dore Rohmë elf, the strange accent, Morrigan path, and the male dress she adopted. The truth of these observations and opinions fell to the sum of this; it suited her as wings suited eagles, and tawny eyes wolves.

Phaila had tried to reach out to her court ‘cousin’, but Arwen had responded coolly with a dismissive laugh and Phaila had walked away, blinking rapidly and never spoken outside of duty to Arwen again. Arwen had almost called to Phaila feeling the tidal wave of confused and unprovoked injury coming from her but at that moment, her ‘friends’ had rounded the corner and she closed her mouth.

She regretted that all of her days. When Phaila next appeared at court, she pointedly avoided Arwen and her ladies-in-waiting, and beat a hasty retreat; her velocity of departure determined by their numbers, appearing only for meals or their balls to do her duty. Not more than a few of the hervenn approached her to ask for a dance, and turn her gracefully around the floor. Arwen winced and stood, feeling usurped by this strange elleth, who came to court on occasion and left many talking. It had hurt her pride, and she had never wondered for an instant if Phaila hurt as well, having to follow her parents to a place where the lord’s daughter made no pretense in liking her.

Males did not intimidate her as they did Arwen, despite growing up with two brothers and raised almost entirely by her father. She had been carefully chaperoned as was proper for her rank, separated from the males because of it and regulated almost entirely to the company of maids. She fell in with their views, not knowing better and not yet trying to establish her own. She merely believed that she must be shy, giggle, and draw away in the company of males. While the times she had been in Phaila’s company she had seen a different behaviour altogether. Phaila feared no one and could strike up a conversation easily. She would sit; her long legs crossed, swinging a booted foot and talk with Elrond, or Erestor or any of the other courtiers unabashedly. She did not blush, or giggle or turn away quickly to make her gown swirl prettily in departure.

Phaila seldom wore gowns and then only for court, to banquets and balls. When turned loose for her own amusements she dressed in breeches, shirt, tunic and boots. Her honey coloured and sun streaked hair drawn back into a single braid that hung down between her shoulders. Off she would go on long legs, her heels a quick click on the polished floors as she made her way to archery range or to saddle to ride with her brothers, or the brothers of Arwen, or whomever else was up for a long day in the saddle. She cajoled Erestor to join her on more than a few occasions, bringing the grave advisor back loose and smiling. When no company was found to be free, she hunted accompanied by a footman and would come back flushed, and smelling of the woods, a brace of birds in her hand or a deer across her saddle. An image of Elrond wiping a speck of blood from a high cheekbone with his finger filled Arwen’s mind; it had unsettled her to see her father touch an elleth. Another image of Phaila and Erestor on one of the terraces in the night, heads bent over a chessboard, sipping wine and arguing tactics.

“What are you doing? You will lose that knight!” Erestor chided.
“Be quiet, I know what I am doing,” Phaila’s answer. Outside of his circle of close friends, who else would speak to the seneschal so?
“What are you seeing?” He laughed and rose from his chair to stand behind her. He leaned his head down next to hers to examine the board from her perspective, his dark hair swinging over her shoulder.
“Is this not like looking at my cards?” She laughed and pushed him away, “Invert the board, Erestor, do not hang over me so!”

Phaila never giggled; Phaila laughed; a great, contagious laugh that unleashed bent her double. Phaila who was always quick with her wit and sense of humour, that was dry and piercing and often thought provoking. No, she did not fear elf or man, king nor deadly serious Erestor who lit up when she entered the room. Another reason to look at her askance. However, Arwen never heard a breath against Phaila’s chastity, nor Erestor’s honour. Gossip such as that could turn deadly.

Arwen had thought on these things when she stood in the courtyard watching Phaila and the dark haired, sapphire eyed ellon slide from their saddles and do reverence to her father; then the question: why is she here? It was all revealed neatly as Phaila was wont to do, never one to mince her words when necessity fell. She had come to have Arwen’s father witness her marriage. Arwen had gaped, as did the rest of the court who had piled out to greet the young countess who had fallen among them like a bolt from the blue. The shock deepened when it was revealed that she was not only marrying an enemy to her house, but a bastard as well. Ah, well, there it is, heads nodded. She had severed ties with her family and what was her rightful due. She would have no life, if she did indeed live long being a Morrigan. Arwen had angrily ordered them away from her.

The tall dark, sapphire-eyed Shadow Rohmë was indeed someone to behold and put her in mind of Haldir in Lórien with his build. He stood trembling in his dusty clothing, holdingila’ila’s hands to his chest and looking into her eyes with such love… Arwen’s heart sighed and twisted simultaneously. Phaila looked back with her great eyes standing in her own dusty clothes oblivious to all but her love personified. She had defied her family for him. This was the sort of bravery she did not posses. Or so she thought.

“No, it was not you I disliked; it was myself and I am sorry you bore the brunt of such childishness,” Arwen answered as the large, tilted eyes rose to hers.
Phaila smiled, “Thank you, Arwen.”

Arwen stepped forward, wanting to embrace her court cousin, but Phaila bowed her head and took a step back. Forgiven she may be, but it was asking too much for a few words to instantly heal wounds that had taken years to inflict, and allow herself to submit to an embrace of late offered friendship. Arwen clasped her hands before her, smiled in understanding.

“I will pray for you and your husband, I will pray…”

Phaila stepped and and at the door turned, “Pray well.” And slipped away.

In the courtyard all were assembled, Elrond had given orders and a large group of riders gathered as well to ride west and then north and then east to lead the hunters away.

“Good luck to you, Phaila,” Erestor kissed her cheek, “Be careful. It has been too long since we have argued over a chessboard; I would like the opportunity again.”

Phaila embraced the tall counselor.

Elrond took her in his hands, and then cupped her face, “I would have you stay.” He said firmly.
“I do not know what my family will do, I have put you in jeopardy enough for this kindness. Someone will definitely shout at you.” She smiled wryly, tho her eyes were sad.
“I can endure shouting,” Elrond kissed her forehead and released her.

igen - yes
Atya - father
Anya - mother
Feleseg - wife