The Phoenix and the Griffin

Phaila strode down the long hall, gathered her anger back to her, slammed into her brother Dagnir’s room, and threw the heavy left pauldron at his head. Ducking he sprang away from the chair he had been sitting and ran.

“Phaila, I did not mean to do that!” He shouted frightened and put a table between them. She vaulted it, slid across the smooth wood to the opposite side, “Valar, Phaila!” He shouted fearfully and ran for the door where she jumped on his back, drug him to the floor. She straddled his waist and sat on him.

“I am sorry,” he panted holding his hands up in submission and supplication. She only stared.

Dagnir squirmed under the weight of those eyes, “I am sorry, Phaila.”

“Do you love me, báty?” She asked resting her hands on his chest.
“What?” Dagnir sputtered, confused. “Of course I do,” he drew his brows together, lay his hands on her thighs, “what is it, Phaila?”
“I love you, Dagnir, in case I forget to tell you in the future,” and she stood and looked down the length of her legs at him.
She stepped over him, “What is it, Phaila?” he called after her, rolling his head back to look at her but she did not answer.

In her own rooms, Phaila drifted to the windows.

“My Lady,” Maltafuinien approached her softly and Phaila turned.

Maltafuinien made a face. “Let me get an ointment to take the swelling down.”

Nurwen entered and found her daughter staring out the windows, “Phaila,” Phaila closed her eyes at her mother’s voice, “Are you alright?” She turned her to examine the cut, “Where is Ma..”
“Gone to bring an ointment.”

“You did very well.”
“Thank you, Anya.”
“Did you see Dagnir?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in one piece?”
“Yes.” Phaila gave a ghost of a smile and knelt on the bench to look out across the garden.

“Anya.”
“Yes?” Her mother kissed the crown of her head.

“Nothing.”
Phaila laid her head back against her mother and looked up into her smiling eyes, “Anya?”
Her mother laughed and laid her hands on either side of Phaila’s head and kissed her again, “Yes?”
“I want to be a Morrigan, I want that very much…”
“Then that is what you will be…what is it?”
“I do not think I would be happy being only wife and mother…”

Nurwen sat down and looked at her daughter. She reached up her hand and took a long curl between her fingers, she and the child’s sire had wondered aloud from whom she got these curls, “No, I know you would not. You are my hungry one,” she smiled at her green and gold-eyed girl, the image of her father. “You want it all.” She laughed.

Phaila folded her arms, laid them on the sill, and propped her chin on them.

“Well, I think Círdan will give you all you ask. You were bred to rule and have talents …”
Phaila looked to her mother, “Is he what you want for me, Anya?”
Nurwen narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, “Phaila…you have years to go…you are going to change very much. It would please me to see you married to him daughter, the only thing I can do for you is see you wed well. It breaks me heart to think that there is no one for you; you are such an extraordinary and sweet child. I fear at times that you will not be understood and I do not want you to be alone.”

“I am beginning to think I need not worry about that,” her mother laughed again and Phaila pivoted her head on her chin to look at her, “They are drawn to you despite the strangeness, but I think I have done you a great disservice allowing you to follow me.”
“But you found Atya.”
“Yes, I did, or perhaps he found me, but your father is exceptional, he loves me and understood why I choose to be a Morrigan, once you are initiated your field will be narrowed, I had hoped to see you married before then,” Nurwen drew her daughter to her, “Do not worry, I think you will find your happiness.”
“I am not worried Anya, please, make my excuses to Círdan, I want to eat in my room tonight.”
Her mother laid her hand on her forehead, “Of course. What is wrong, Phaila? It is not the cut on your cheek.”
“I am very tired. I only want a bath and to go to sleep.”
Her mother rose and kissed her forehead, “I will have Malta bring something for you to eat before you go to bed.”
“Thank you, Anya.”
“You are welcome,” Nurwen stroked her cheek, stood and walked to the door.
“Good night, sweetheart,” her mother called.
“Good night,” Phaila called after her mother her heart aching at her silence. She had fought the urge to lay her head in her mother’s lap and cry her heart out for love of Amaras.


Phaila stood in her bathroom and pulled her tunic over her head, untucked and unbuttoned her shirt. She sat down while Malta supervised the delivery of water to fill the tub. Her leggings were soaked; Amaras’ seed, delivered deeply had been seeping from her. She sat, legs crossed, swinging her foot back and forth waiting for the maids to finish and leave her alone.

The maids gone she pulled off her boots, unlaced her leggings and slid them off and stepped into the hot water. Sitting she wrapped her arms around her legs, lowered her head to her knees cried.

“What is it, szeretett?” Amaras asked standing beside the tub. Phaila’s head snapped up and she looked at him as he stood looking down at her. He sat on the edge of the tub and took her small chin in his hand, sapphire eyes soft with concern.

Phaila laughed and wiped her eyes with her fingers, “How did you get in here?”
Amaras stepped clothed into the tub and sat down. Phaila laughed harder, “The window,” he answered, “now what is all of this about?” He carefully cupped her face in his hands, using his thumbs he wiped under her lashes.
She did not answer. He nodded; she did not need to tell him what ate her heart.
“Well then maybe you will agree with my idea,” he smiled holding her face in his hand.
She bit her lower lip waiting and he drew up, his heart standing still again, “I have come to stay the night with you, the entire night.”
“Yes,” she answered immediately with no reservation.
“My Lady!” Maltafuinien hissed at the door, entering and closing it behind her; she stared at Amaras sitting dressed in the tub. “My Lord, what do you think you are doing?”
“I am bathing with my wife.” Amaras answered non-plused and tugged off a boot, handed it to her. “I think it is a husbands prerogative. You must grow accustomed to it, Maltafuinien. She will not always need you to wash her hair.”
“Valar,” she took it and waited for the other. He pulled off his tunic and Phaila reached for the buttons of his shirt.
“Enough!” Maltafuinien held up her hand stopping him when he reached for the laces of his leggings and Phaila laughed as she fled the bath.

Together they sat on Phaila’s bed and shared her dinner; she in hebe, be, he wrapped in one of her shawls.
He touched her cheek, leaning across the tray to examine the sword cut, “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
He sat back and looked at her; examined her. He shook his head in wonder, “It suits somehow; ah, you look like a pirate captain, wounded but victorious.” He said softly, “You must promise me, that when you are Morrigan, you will be careful; you are reckless.”
“Reckless?” She tilted her head.
“Yes, that trick with the sword master.”
“A calculated risk. It was meant to do what it did, disarm him,” she poured more wine into their shared goblet, “I am not arongrong as you, I must rely…”
”I understand this kedvesem,” he took her chin in his hand; he had been in twelve battles and had walked away with cuts much like this one, “This is something else…” she caught his hand and kissed it, held it against her right cheek and looked into his eyes, waiting for him to tell her. Oh dear Valar, what a terrible and gentle wife! “You will lead men, they will look to you…you will work hard to continually prove yourself. You realise that you will always have to do this, so you throw yourself…”

Her nose turned pink; a harbinger, Amaras noted, of rain that did not necessarily fall.

“I understand,” he gave a benevolent smile, “eat!”

For Phaila it was a relief; someone understood and she did not have to draw breath, nor put tongue to words. How can she have been so fortunate? Surely, the Valar did smile on them.

A Dore and a Shadow Rohmë. Look at us, Illúvatar, look at us and bless us. We would have the impossible; we would dare again the exile of our houses with this deed done between us. Blind them the you you will not move. I want the duchy. I must have it now. I cannot be only her husband for it will come to her will it not; she will be duchess. I mhavehave the crown of my father.

“Amaras,” she snapped him back. He was looking at her; she was looking into him. She sat listening to pra prayer.
“I cannot but think this, Phaila.” He moved the tray from between them. “I did not think such thoughts until you…” That was not entirely true.

She shook her head.
“Do you think I curse us when all I want is…” he drew the robe back from her shoulders, “everything?”
“I cannot help but think there will be a price to pay for what you ask, a price too high for us to survive the paying.”
“I will pay it,” he pushed her gently into the bed, “I will pay it gladly for you will need to stay behind.”
“No!”

Amaras covered her mouth with his, held her down on the bed; tasted her angry, helpless tears.
“It is decided,” he leveled his eyes to hers, “when the time comes, I will pay and you will wait for me. I will return for you wife, I will return for you and you will promise.”
Phaila shook her head among the spill of her hair in the bed.
“As you love me, Phaila, you will promise.” He demanded.

The anger in her eyes turned to reluctance, “As I love you, I promise.”
“I will hold you to that promise,” he spoke sternly, afraid. He exhaled. “Now, it is done on both sides. Listen to me, you are my life; you hold it in your hands always. This is why you must stay behind. If you slip around me, Phaila…”

She kissed him, “I will not, but you are asking much of me, kedevelt.”
“Hopefully, neither one of us will have to pay, this is only …”

Phaila kissed him again.

~~~~~~~~~
Phaila wrapped her shawl er aer aer and sat on the bench before the bank of windows. Amaras lay in the large, soft bed looking at her in the starlight.

“Twenty years, Amaras,” she whispered, “how do we manage this?” He rose from the bed and sat behind her.
“I am thinking on it,” he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to lean back into his chest; at the moment his thoughts were far from their problem. He lowered his head beside hers; sable hair fell over her shoulder, mingled with her hair of honey. He lifted his head and leaned over her left shoulder, drawing her head to the right to trace the dark arrow, high on her neck, behind her ear. She arched her long neck and smiled, looked at him from the corners of her eyes. He kissed the arrow, drawing from her a shiver of pleasure. He traced his finger over the arrow.
“What a path you have chosen fejesedik enyem,” he murmured against her hair. Manage twenty years? Will you survive twenty years with your feet on this road? And after, when we are free to live our lives together, how will I manage the nights and days you are gone fighting for some village, some town…?


They lay sweaty and tangled as the sun paled the dark blue of the night. Amaras raised his head. “It is morning, .” .” He curled his hand against the back of her head and pressed his lips to her forehead.

Phaila rolled onto her back and looked at the sky, “the sun is our enemy.”
“One day, we will all three be reconciled and friends again.” He kissed her and rose slowly, running his hands over her, his head low to trail his heavy hair across her breasts. She caught a handful and held him for a kiss. He smiled in the kiss, as he began to harden again. They had been making love all night, he set his knee on the bed and pulled her to the edge.

The door burst open, and Amaras jerked upright. It was Maltafuinien.
“Your mother comes!” She cried and grabbed Amaras’ leggings threw them at him. He held them against his heavy erection.

Phaila sat bolt upright, and flung herself from the bed, grabbe Ama Amaras’ shirt and tunic, and spun in a circle her hair obscured her vision.
“What are you looking for?” Amaras asked breathlessly.
“Boots?” She stood flung the hair back from her face, “Where are your boots?”
“The bath, the bath!” Maltafuinien pointed and naked Phaila and Amaras flung themselves in the room where she began to laugh.
“Oh Amaras!” She covered her mouth completely lost in a fit of laughing hysterics.
“This is hardly funny,” Maltafuinien chastised terrified from the door.
“No, it is very funny,” Amaras said turning awaulliulling on his leggings, tightening the laces over the unruly member and laughing deeply. Phaila looked at the bulge and burst into fresh laughter.
“You cannot walk around like that.”
“Do you hear?” He addressed his breeches, looked at her shaking his head helplessly.

“Out the window!” Maltafuinien flung open the shutters. She took Amaras’ shirt, tunic and boots and threw them through the gap, “Go!”

“Tonight?” He turned to Phaila who was pulling on her robe.
“Yes.”
He drew her to him for a kiss that must last until the stars rose.
“Go, go!” Maltafuinien stomped her foot on the verge of hysterics herself, and Amaras laughed at her frantic behaviour and grasping the sill in his hand vaulted down to the garden below.
Phaila hung out the window and looked to him, hair spilling over her shoulders, falling around her face, the honey catching in the first rays of the sun.
“You are most wanton, Amaras.” She teased from her vantage point.
“You did this to me.” He called accusingly, leaned his hands on the wall, looking up at her.
“I will correct it…later.”
“Igen, férj, you will.”
“I love you,” she called down.
“I love you more,” he called back and she disappeared with a yelp, yanked in by a frantic Maltafuinien.

The bathroom door opened and Nurwen found Phaila sitting and looking at the sword cut, her cheeks flushed.
“Good morning, Anya,” she said catching her mother’s eye in the mirror.
“How did you sleep?”
“I do not think I did,” stay close to the truth.
“How are you feeling?” her mother came to stand behind her.
“Tired, but am hungry.” Very, very true.
Her mother turned her face up to examine the cut, neatly scabbed over and not red, nor swollen.
“I will have something brought to you,” her er ser smiled and turned away.

“Good morning, Malta,” her mother called to her daughters nurse who was making the bed.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Malta bobbed.

Círdan’s guard were a noticeable presence in the galleries, the hall, the gardens, even the stables. The last two days events had proven that it was futile to attempt to reconcile these houses. The ellon stalked stiff legged; bristling passed one another, hands resting on the hilts of sword, waiting for any provocation. The elleths were withdrawn and regulated to their rooms, the south garden. This had turned into quite the disaster, not even Círdan could curb them.

Amaras opened his door to the familiar scratch to find Phaila hooded and her cheeks tearstained.
He drew her inside, “What is it? What has happened?”
“We leave in the morning,” she pushed back the hood.

Amaras unfastened the brooch with trembling hands, so soon? The pin pricked his finger.

He cleared his throat, set the brooch on the desk, “I have news that will ease you, ease us both.” He took the cloak from her shoulders. “Círdan has offered me a place in his guard. My father is pleased, my father’s wife ecstatic. So you see? I will be close and able to see you. I had decided to stay regardless; it is a boon that Círdan has put this before me for our sake. Did you think I would ride from here?”

She stood almost swaying with sorrow.

“Peace Phaila,” he took her chin in his hand, leveled his eyes to hers.
“Peace Amaras? Where is that land?” What a sharp returning look to his one of softness.

She was angry with their impotency, her age, and the law regarding it. She saw the years that must spin out befa pla place called hope would break on the horizon. Peace lay as out of view as Varda. He clenched his jaw, angry with his own inability to take her away from this dismal room to that land.

She is going away, and I must watch herit. it.

She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, took his hands.

She sighed, kissed his cheek and found his eyes angry; now. No peace, but she knew a place called concession and stepped to lead him there.

“I have been foolish and ruined our last night, I do not know when we will see each other again…”
“NOT ourt nit night…” he interrupted brusquely, and took her throat in his hand, caressing it with his thumb, “not our last night,” he cased her mouth with his own.

igen - yes
ferj - husband
Anya - mother