The Phoenix's Griffin

Daeron was indeed discreet; and mute as well, leading Haldir silently through the snow that had fallen during the night to a tent, erected specifically for him.

It was small, but comfortable, Haldir inclined his head and Daeron mirrored him, gave a slight smile and left Haldir on his own.

He lay on the cot without removing his cloak and lay his arm over his eyes. The ring on her finger. She still wore his ring; he saw it now, the upraised finger, requesting a moment while she read. She did talk all of the time. She dwelt in an atmosphere where signs, signals, gestures were subtle, but their meaning clear in a place where words could not be spoken. How had he missed it?

He dotiretired from his long ride, the struggle with the guard, his dealings with Phaila and his sitting over her all night.

There was a great movement outside of the tent, voices called while others barked orders, jerking him into wakefulness. He rose and at the door watched trickles of men and elf moving in the direction of the fortress. There was a scent of excitement in the air, and ducking back he changed clothes quickly, slung his quiver and bow over his head and exited the tent to follow.

The day was cold and brilliantly clear, his breath plumed in the air.

Phaila, Pelion and Daeron stood on the perimeter, looking at the dark gray stone castle and its’ battlements. How long had he been sleeping?

“Give them some target practice.” She motioned to the figures standing on the walls, “while the catapults are brought up. I want them to see what they will have in store for tonight.” Phaila instructed and looked to the sky. “See to it, Daeron?” Daeron smiled, nodding and walked back toward camp, “Oh and Daeron?”
“Your Grace?”
“Do you think you can conjure a meteor shower as well, just to keep it interesting?”
“Are you sure, Your Grace…the damage…”
“I would take this place down stone by stone, I do not mind fire damage….”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“More snow,” Pelion looked up at the clouds as well.
“More snow,” Phaila agreed and turned to look at the archers who drew a long line waiting her command.
“We will have to entice them to poke their heads up.” Pelion nodded at the wall.
“Entice them, by all means,” she smiled and gestured with a rolling wrist ending in an outstretched hand toward the walls.

Haldir joined the ranks as she walked slowly down the line. She unfastened her brooch and handed the heavy scarlet and fur-lined cloak to Pelion and stood before them all in her pauldrons, vambraces and the intricately tooled leather and plate breastplate of her cuirass. Her two silver handled daggers stood over her shoulders deadly, folded wings. She wore her hair in the single war braid, and it fell forward over the breastplate. She was beautiful. Pink and gold, black, gray and silver, long legs moving gracefully; the greaves catching the dim sunlight as she walked looking at, and sizing up those assembled. She was also allowing them to size her as well. She was commander, these were not toys strapped to her back, and this was no gown of black leather and silver plate hanging on her shoulders. She was an instrument of war and destruction.

She was no longer what she presented to him; this was not Phaila defending others. This was Phaila here to take back what was hers with single-minded determination, her purpose bloody.

“What do you say?” She asked softly as she walked by, and everyone drew still to hear her, “Do you think you can take a man from here?” She gestured slowly, arm outstretched toward the walls. There were murmurs of ascent as elf and man eyed the distance; the murmurs louder from the elves and half-elf that swelled the ranks.

She held them in the palm of her hand with her walk and her quiet speech and the magic, power that comes with a title two thousand years old. She had been bred for these moments, had been trained and shouldered it with grace, and her particular sense of humour. Then, he looked on her with lovers’ eyes.

She stopped before a young elf, “What is your name?” she asked as he inclined his head to her, golden hair swinging forward then back as he righted himself.
“Maeglin, Your Grace,” he answered softly, pale blue eyes large to be singled out, and she beckoned him to her.
“Maeglin, may I have your bow?” she asked holding her gloved hand out for his bow.

He handed it to her and she stepped back slightly, pulling the string she looked to the walls, picking a target and in four fluid movements loosed an arrow. A body pitched backward on the wall, skewed through the skull.

Haldir watched with the devouring eyes of a lover; lips parting at the end stance, bow tipping forward as the arrow hurtled from the string, she was turned out in a perfect archers’ stance, she was a master, proving to any who doubted her worth on this field. She was no house born noble elf-woman trained to lyre and the loom, instead her fingers moved nimbly on the bow, and death was a tapestry she could weave.

Haldir wished he were a poet, or artist capable of transferring this moment into something lasting. However, no artist, poet could paint or write of her beneath this posture; a soul desperate, and lost and turning about for some comfort and understanding against the thrum of a bowstring snapping into place.

“Will serve,” she nodded and handed it back to him drawing laughter.

She killed with impunity. It was shocking. It was frightening. It was arousing. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

She continued her walk and stopped before Haldir, who, observing form, inclined his head to her.

“You should use arrows from our supplies,” she reached over his shoulder and plucked one from his quiver, “it would be not be….appropriate,e sme smiled, “to have a white fletched arrow from Lórien sailing over that wall,” she handed him the arrow and walked on, her meaning clear. You are here, but not representing Lórien, but nothing more came from her. He could have been anyone, except that in drawing her hand back over his shoulder, her fingertips caressed his cheek and she had squeezed his hand when the arrow past from her fingers to his.

An arrow streaked through the sky and another in the ranks of Alanor fell back from the wall.

Behind the long line of archers a rumbling came and they turned to find ten catapults being rolled up. Daeron walked to stand beside her.
“Your Grace,” he bowed his head and stood his shoulder against hers, “As you requested.”
“Mmm,” she tugged at her glove.
“I do not discern elves with him.”
“Good, that will make this easier,” she stood arms folded across her chest watching the approach of the engines.

Daeron touched her arm and motioned her away from the line. “He’s only sitting, quite surrounded now, we’ve men and elf in the wood with hawks to take down any pigeon carrying a message he will send, and no runner will get by us with the hounds if they were foolish enough to try to come down the back wall.”

Phaila nodded and a rider fast approaching caught her eye. They narrowed.

“Is that who I think it is?” she smiled.
Daeron narrowed his eyes, “Gods, it’s Berindon.” He laughed joyfully watching their friend riding at break neck speed atop his flashy roan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rider approached quickly, drawing the horse to a sliding stop and the black haired half-elf leapt from the saddle, threw back his pale brown cloak and dramatically inclining his head to Phaila then strode forward and wrapped her in a backbreaking embrace. Their legs tangled, and they staggered backward under his weight, laughing into each other’s face, Haldir felt his stomach knot, the scene was much too intimate.

Berindon let her go and stepped back.
“Daeron,” he said coolly to his friend so alike they could be brothers, before turning to him suddenly and embracing him laughing then turned back to Phaila and putting his hands on both sides of her face kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. He let her go, “Have you not blasted this down yet?” He gestured to the fortress.
“We are working on it,” Daeron looked to the catapults.
“Then I have not missed the fun.” He took Phaila by the arm and looked toward the line of archers and the occasional arrow that sailed over their heads.
“What are we doing here?” he turned to look at the walls.
“Killing curious cats,” Phaila smiled.
“How unnerving for them,” he squinted.
“It will be more so when it gets dark,” and she tugged his arm, “Berindon, you will not like what I am going to tell you…”

Haldir watched, strained his ears to hear, but she pitched her voice too low for him. Berindon stiffened and looked at the walls. Phaila linked her arm through his and leaned her shoulder against him; his dark head lowering, the wide shoulders began to shake. Phaila stood looking straight ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When darkness fell, so did the snow and the great stones of the catapults. And Daeron true to his word, conjured meteors that streaked from the sky and fell behind the walls, shaking the ground with their impact even from this distance.

Phaila walked out alone, thinking on the latest ‘gift’ sent from Alanor. She stopped to watch from a hill silhouetted against the fires and observed Daeron’s handiwork. At dawn the catapults slowed and stopped. Her orders. She wanted them to come back to the walls during the day, come back and stick their stupid heads up.

In the trough of non-action, she walked toward the wall and cocked her head, anger, grief and loneliness filling her heart. She turned to walk parallel with the tall gray walls. She paced its’ length and within bowshot between the two armies; her strides lengthening and quickening.

Haldir stood with her generals. They all watched silently as her walk turned from pensive stroll to long-legged challenging stalk, her head turned toward the wall.

Haldir took a step and Daeron grabbed his wrist.
“Berindon,” Daeron whispered, “You must do something.”
Pelion nodded.
Berindon nodded resigned and murmured, “drágán,” and trotted out to intercept her.

“You are too close, sweetheart,” Berindon cautioned catching up to her. He moved between her and the wall.
Her head snapped toward him and then away, the look made him hesitate in his step. It had been a very long time since he had seen this from her.

“I wish they would take the shot,” she turned and faced the wall, “Well?! Will you not take the shot?!!” she shouted at the men on the walls holding her arms out to her sides making herself an excellent target. She waited.

Haldir, Pelion and Daeron gasped. Her army cheered; too far to hear her words but saw her posture; they thought she taunted the men of Alanor.

But none took her invitation and she continued her stalking. Berindon followed her uneasily.

“I wish to god they would put me down. End this nightmare.” She gestured. Phaila kept her face turned toward the wall, her gestures quick and angry as she spoke, to all it looked as a heated discussion with her general, while Haldir, Pelion and Daeron knew the truth of it; bring close enough to hear. “Gods, gods! I would have gone those years ago, Berindon; I longed to die but for the babe and a promise made for love. I wait and wait in a place where no sunlight pierces the blackness that shrouds my heart!” She struck her breastplate powerfully with her gloved fist; gave a sob, caught, and strangled it. “There is no reward for my contentions, there is no relief! I could pull those walls down, and put them all to the sword and it would not satisfy the nothingness I lie down with every night.”

She was sickened by the content of boxes sent from keep to tent, emotionally exhausted, betrayed to the core and missed her proud, strong husband who could help her shoulder this task that she must do alone.

Berindon best understood her grief driven rages when they took her in their teeth; having been with her at Mordor, he had escorted her from Mirkwood. He had been the one to find Amaras. He had stood rigidly attracting her attention and she had hurried to his side to look down at Amaras lying on the field, with two arrows in his broad chest, and blood on his mouth. Seeing what no mate should see.

“There is the promise,” he reminded her, “Amaras would be most angry with you…”
“Well then we will both of us have a proper fight, for I am truly angry with Amaras,” she turned and looked to Berindon, eyes full of hot tears.
“I would like to see that Phaila, truly I would but must I go to the Halls of Waiting to witness it?” Berindon asked leaning toward her.

Phaila ducked her head, put her fisted right hand on her hip and smiled, with her left hand wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Come away, you are too close,” she chided him as he had hed tod together they quit the field.

Haldir lowered his head, his hair swinging around his face, his heart aching, Daeron flicked his eyes sideways to look at him, then away.

At dusk Haldir approached her cautiously. She stood with her chin nestled in the fur of her cloak, her arms folded behind her.

“Phaila,” he called softly and she turned tear brimmed eyes to him and gave him a pallid smile, drew a gloved finger under her lashes and nodded to him.

He stood beside her, crossing his arms over his chest; wanting to wrap them round her, but she was somewhere beyond comfort wanting Amaras, instead was dealt him.
He shook his head with frustration and leaned his shoulder against hers.

They stood silently and long as only elves can. His thoughts on all that had occurred, on what would occur, on the ache in his heart, and slid his eyes to look at her from under his lashes. He was sick with what he had heard her say, and in his mind he knew he should give up and go home, but his heart would not let him.

Just a little longer, I am not ready.

She stared at the snow; her chin still sunk in the fur of her collar. She took a long, deep breath through her nostrils and exhaled slowly.

She kicked at the snow and half-turned toward him her lips parting, but she closed her mouth.
“What is it?” he asked turning himself, but she shook her head.
“Phaila.”
“Right, now this is …” she gestured. She had been thinking.
He half laughed, “who am I going to tell?”
“Habit,” she answered, “I am waiting for a rider from the Old Wood.”
Haldir nodded.
She looked back to the fortress; “There is another way in.”
Haldir looked.
“There is a passageway through the mountain there, that leads to a door hidden with a charm, and it’s in a book that the rider is bringing,” she finished.

Haldir smiled and shook his head. This explained her not assaulting the walls. Why waste men in the effort?

“Whose idea was that?” he smiled, and truly had to fight the impulse to kiss her, wrap her in his arms.
She looked at him, “Amaras’” and smiled as he nodded knowingly.
“When it arrives, this will be over in a matter of hours,” she walked a few yards away and lifted her face to the falling snow.
Haldir nodded.
“Would you care to join me? I will be leading the assault …I would like to have you there, Haldir.”

Censure was on his lips, habit; he smiled.
“I would love to join you.”

She nodded and rubbed her hands together, she motioned him to follow her and they walked to a fire.

“I love snow,” she said turning her face up to the heavy flakes and pulled a flask from inside her breastplate, unscrewed the lid and taking a sip offered it to him.
“Gods,” he laughed taking it, “It smells good, what is it?”
“Pear brandy,” she laughed back, “it will warm you.”
Haldir brought the silver flask to his lips and took a sip. It took his breath and made him cough, but yes warmth flared up from his chest and Phaila laughed at him.
“Oh!” He croaked, coughed again and handed it back. She smiled and took another sip. They could be hunting, pausing in the snow; instead of besieging her own fortress.
“I would like to spend some time with you tonight, Haldir, if you can see your way clear.”
“Oh I have nothing but a clear way.” His heart jogged sideways.
“You will not be able to sleep the entire night.”
“Ah,” he looked down.
“I understand if you say no.”
“Phaila,” he sighed, “I would give anything to spend an hour together in bed.”
“Do not say that,” she stepped toward him, “bad luck. And it will be more than an hour.” She smiled, motioned with her head for him to follow.

Maltafuinien met them when they entered Phaila’s tent.
“I need nothing, see that I am undisturbed,” she instructed and worked the brooch holding her cloak closed.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Maltafuinien bobbed and left them.

Phaila turned to Haldir and kissed him deeply the taste of the brandy still in her mouth.

Their clothes, and Phaila’s armor lay piled on the floor. Haldir lay over Phaila drawing in great breaths.

“Gods,” he moaned lowering his head to her shoulder and she laughed, pulling his hair from her face.
“Has it really only been three days?” he laughed and kissed her sweaty forehead and looked down into her face.
“I think it is this,” she gestured over his shoulders to the tent, and the turmoil it represented.
“Is that it? Or is it because I cannot have you every night as I am accustomed to?”
“Both then,” she laughed and drew his head down to her shoulder, “Oh it is hard to sleep without you beside me,” she whispered relieved.

But she did not sleep. She lay, with her head on his chest, staring in the candlelight.

He ran his hand over her.

“Forgive me.”

He had never heard her voice so small. His eyes rolled from their perusal of the tent ceiling to look at the left side of her face. It was easy to forget how young she was. Her youth woflicflicker suddenly before him like a candle sputtering in the wind and then go out, just as quickly and always elicited a reaction of surprise from him. “It was simpler not knowing was it not? I have been selfish. I am sorry.” She ran her hand over his abdomen and he shivered in sorrow.

He lay holding her head against his chest eyes wide in the dim light, his chest betraying him with it’s fast rise and fall; his heart betraying him with it’s quick beat. But she did not lift her head, and wet warmth fell on the skin below her eyes.

Gods, I am the one who is selfish wanting all from you when you wanted so little from me. The days you greeted me gently, happily after two weeks absence, and sent me off with a kiss and a decent meal in my kit. You kept the talan, sending out the laundry and the mending, not that it was beneath you, but because you hated doing it, and I was glad to be able to provide you that bit of luxury. You shopped and cooked, listened to my telling of the happenings on the border. You brought a refinement and exuberance to my home. Would it be a quiet evening? Would there be an early morning stalk? What demands had you ever exerted? What did you ever ask for? Nothing. Not even the warmth of my body against yours in the night – you did not even ask that much. You lay quietly with arm thrown over me grateful for some peace and forgetfulness if only for a little while. A l pel peace and forgetfulness that lay shattered with such a resounding betrayal forcing you to come home and deal with it and the ghost of dead husband.

“I love you, Phaila,” he said hoarsely his hand heavy on her head.

She tightened her grip around his waist and he felt her shudder. He wiped his eyes. He burdened her. He always burdened her with his love.

She raised her head and kissed him, and he rolled on to her again.

“Is she in bed?” a voice, the voice of Pelion in the outer chamber.
“My Lord, she does not wish to be disturbed,” Maltafuinien protested.

Phaila lifted her head, the young one gone, and in her place the duchess, listening; considering.

They had been lying on their sides facing one another, studying each others’ features in the dim firelight, as they had done a thousand times in Lórien.

She cleared her throat of tears.

“Go away, Pelion!” she called, “do not come in here unless the entire army has deserted or Alanor has surrendered!”
SilenceYes,Yes, Your Grace!” he called back.
She settled back into his arms, and relaxed slowly, “Oh Haldir, a quieter life,” she yearned.
“You would not like it.” Haldir smiled and wiped his eyes again.
“No, I daresay, ” she buried her face in his chest.
“I wish…” he sighed and kissed her forehead, drew his hand over her cheek, “oh, Phaila I wish.”
“No more,” a plea.

He pulled her closer, settlhis his chin on the top of head,ead, her right leg coming up to drape over his hip. The tension of her body slowly relaxed and she slipped into her dreams.


He rubbed his chin on her shoulder as he looked around her bedchamber. He felt abysmal, and he drew her tighter into his chest as if the contact would lend some light to the darkness of his plight. We cannot be whatever it is we are here. Only high in the trees of Lothlorien had that possible. He breathed in deeply smelling the scent of sex, apples, and honey, the scents saturated the air here, scents she had brought to him in Lórien.

Phaila made a soft sound and shivered. He pulled the furs higher, and lowered his face into her tangle of hair, smelling of sweet almonds. She was immersed in the lux of her true life. These sheets, fine linen, the mattress and pillows down, this fur….he laughed softly at his foolishness, rolling onto his back, pressing the back of his hand to his moutHe wHe winced at the memory of bringing her to ‘their’ talan, puffed with his pride as provider. Oh. He silently laughed harder, tears trickled from the corners of his eyes to run into his hair.

He lay awake, finally wiping his mind blank as he stared at the ceiling. Someone walked softly in the outer chamber, and he rose on his elbow over Phaila to look. The arras was pulled back. Maltafuinien nodded to him, he gave an acknowledging nod back and bent over Phaila.

“O, already?” she moaned pressing her face against his chest.
“I am afraid so,” he whispered and nuzzled her neck.

She lay a moment, and then sat up.

They rose from the bed; the room, chill despite the braziers of burning apple wood. Phaila pulled on her robe of pale gold, ran her fingers through the snarl of her hair, braided it into a loose plait away from her face.

Disheveled; he loved seeing her fresh from their bed, her hair braided like this, something to get it out of her way, she was stunning.

Haldir pulled on his leggings and sat on the bed to draw on his boots while Phaila shook out his shirt and watched as he slide his arms through, her fingers caressing the back of his neck as she drew the hair from under the collar. She swept the tunic from the floor and shook it out as well and handed it to him, and watched still as he pulled it over his head. She grasped his head and bending down, kissed him softly, leaning away, trailed her fingers along his cheeks.

She held up the harness of sword and long knives and slid it over his shoulders then stepped in front of him to fasten the buckles while he stood looking into her down turned face.

He drew her against his chest unable to bear gazing at her.

“Go back to bed,” he whispered against her cheek holding her hard against his chest.
“I have things to do,” she whispered back and he stroked her hair, murmuring a sound of disapproval, but he could not command her and loved her the more for it, he finally admitted.

His lips sought hers. She bent easily in his arms, but then; she always did, bending, molding herself to him and his desires.

He walked through the considerably deeper snow to his tent, and made his way in the darkness to his cot where he stretched out fully clothed and still in his cloak to lie in the dark. I think it is over. He stared at the ceiling.

Phaila sat at her desk and ran her hands through her hair. She stared before her, eyes on the bed and gave herself an internal shake.

She reached for a sheet of paper and picked up her quill, dipped it into the ink and began to put together a list of what she needed today to accomplish her task. How many men, and who. How many to find and release the hostages, secure the keep, provide cover for her as she opened the gates, it could not be too many, and it could not be too few. She unrolled the blueprints of the castle and examined the passageways, the rooms, and the levels and lost herself in calculation.

In the tub, Phaila lay back submerging herself and sat up to hug her knees against her breasts. Gods, Amaras! She cried quietly her cheek on top of her knees. Oh drágán, drágán Amaras! Kellesz nekem (I need you)!! Vak vagy (Where are you) Amaras! ?