The Phoenix and the Griffin

They sat astride bone weary horses and slid wearemseemselves from their saddles as servants rushed out to take their horses.

Círdan met them in the gallery, his chamberlain having been on a quiet look out for them, he smiled at the gaunt pair who approached him in dirty clothes, they had been riding hard and riding long.

Círdan had been waiting for them. Once the Ar-Feiniel had ridden through the gates to check the whereabouts of Berindon he knew. They had run. He sent out riders to intercept, guard them once they had crossed into his lands, but Amaras and Phaila hid themselves well and slipped through undetected.

“Valar,” he held his arms out to embrace them both, and they started to protest; the state of their road filthy clothes, but he laughed and held them to him. “Thank the Valar, thank the Valar,” he cried, “But you are in such a state.” He examined their thin frames, “I can correct this, come I have rooms for you.”

On the first landing, Phaila fainted. Amaras caught her, going to his knees to do so for she made no sound, simply slipped below his peripheral vision.

Gathering her in his arms he lifted her, Valar, she was so light, and rose unsteadily himself, Círdan, his chamberlain and attending footmen murmured, offered to take her for he looked ready to go down himself, but he held her firmly, her head lolled over his arm and continued up the steps.

“Send for the doctor,” Círdan ordered softly and watched as Amaras walked on with faltering steps.

The rooms were opened to him and he gently laid her on the bed.

Water and a cloth were handed to Amaras who wiped his wife’s face. Her cheekbones stood harshly out, and there were hollows under her eyes. She had always been spare, she could not afford to lose this much weight, but it had been hard going and they had been forced to stop and camp in the open, making a fire out of the question. They had lost a pack of food when crossing the River Gwathlo. And had simply gone days between meals until they found a good blind of trees to build a small fire, but by then Phaila had lost her appetite altogether; ate only because Amaras ordered her and then only a mouthful. She had tried to eat more but it had all come back up. She had pushed it all on to him, knowing she was failing and it was pointless; he would need to bear up for the both of them. Phaila hung on; waited, clung to her will and had succumbed once they had reached safety.

“I could not get her to eat,” Amaras said dabbed her face and brushed back her hair.
Círdan laid his hand on Amaras’ head.

The doctor arrived and Círdan stepped back.

“Is she pregnant?” He asked putting down his bag.

Amaras looked at his unconscious wife, wondering. “I do not know,” he rose. They had been making love in their bedroll, every night until she began to visibly weaken and he left her to sleep, content to hold her. It was possible that they made their babe out on the plain on a night when want grew in their hearts simultaneously.

“Come Amaras,” Círdan took his arm and tugged him gently, “the doctor will see to her now, there is no danger, come.”

In the great room, food was brought, and as enticing as it was, Amaras would not eat.
“You are doing her no favour in denying yourself,” Círdan gently admonished though he understood, “Please Amaras, eat something, or at least, here,” he handed him a cup of hot tea, “drink this.”

The door to the bedchamber opened and the doctor emerged.

“She is awake now, and fine. She could use a few decent meals and some rest,” he looked to Amaras, “she is fine,” he reassured.
“Is she…?” His heart fluttered.
“No, she is not,” the doctor answered keeping his face impassive.

Amaras was strangely disappointed. He had not considered she may be pregnant, and when the physician asked the pause had been one of…hope? He slumped a bit, took a breath. It was not a good time for a child, however…. he nodded.

“There? She is only weak with hunger,” Círdan smiled and retreated with the doctor.

Amaras poured a cup of hot tea, added milk and sugar; the way she liked it and took it with shaking hands to their bedroom to find Phaila sitting; head hanging, on the side of the bed.

“Easy, kedvesem, easy,” he sat beside her and held the cup up. Phaila sipped gratefully.
“I am sorry, I did not mean to faint like that, I thought I could get to our rooms,” she said and then dipped her mouth to the cup again.
“No, my love, drágán kedevelt, it is a wonder you stayed your feet this long,” he touched her head.

Amaras transferred their meal from great room to bedroom and together they sat on the floor to eat.
“You must eat, Phaila, you must!” He insisted as she picked at her food. The same words he had used during their flight.
“I am eating all I can, husband, may we take a bath? I will try again after.”
“All right, then,” he answered not knowing what else to do.

“A hot bath, Phaila, and smelling of…” Amaras sat on the tubs’ edge, his voice cheerful, relieved and hated she was so sick, “lavender.”
“Lavender…” she laughed, wobbling as she worked the buttons of her shirt, trying to return his cheerfulness and turn his worry, “why is it believed everyone likes lavender?”
“Good question. I will think on it when my head aches a little less, and remember this bit of information.” He unbuttoned his shirt, “what is your favourite scent, drágán fejesedik, aside from apricot and pear?”
“I loved that scent you brought me in the little red vial, the pomegranate and anise…”
“Then I will send for more,” he pulled his shirt off and tossed it onto a chair.
“What about you, Amaras, what scent do you like so I can put it in our baths,” she peeled off her shirt and sat to tug off her boots.
“I like orange blossoms, and the white flower you showed me, moon-flower.”
She smiled and rose to push her breeches down her legs, and Amaras held her hand to steady her as she stepped into the bath.
“Orange blossoms,” she sighed, “I have never smelled that save on your clothes….I like it very much as well.”
Amaras climbed in the tub, sat across from her, “You should have told me.”
“I could not have worn it, we have no orange trees…”
“Now it does not matter, I will ask my anya to send more for you.”
“I would like that,” she slid down in the water to wet her hair.

Exhausted they rose from the tub to wrap long sheets of heavy cotton around them and walked to the bedroom where he sat her down and forced a few more mouthfuls down her before allowing her to collapse in the bed.

Amaras woke before Phaila and raised his head. She had scarcely moved, she who moved continually. She was warm and breathing, quieting his heart and he rose carefully.

He found their kits emptied of clothing, and their personal items sitting on the table, long robes left in their place. He drew on the larger and stuck his head out, beckoned to the footman.

The smell of food brought Phaila from her sleep and she rolled on to her back. She looked at the painted ceiling, peach, the corners of wall and ceiling framed in some intricate molding she did not feel up to intellectually pursuing; like Amaras and the question of lavender. It was terribly bright and she covered her eyes.

“Here,” Amaras sat on the bed, holding a cup of tea. She pushed herself upright and took the cup, her hand did not shake and Amaras let it go, watching for any sign of tremor, but no, she was better.

He stood and brought back to the bed a robe of pale blue, soft wool.

“Seems we have been robbed,” he held it open as she stood and slipped her arms through.
“What?”
“We have no clothes,” he smiled.
“Oh Amaras, they were so dirty,” she answered shocked and belted the robe closed, mortified.
Amaras laughed and kissed her pulled her to the table, “Come and eat something,” his voice full of laughter. Starved half to death and she was embarrassed over clothing.

She ate more today, and better yet; she kept it down and then went back to bed, Amaras climbing in beside her after divesting himself of his robe. He pulled her into his chest and took her right hand in his; held their hands up and looked at the bands that gleamed in the sunlight.

“I have no words,” Phaila said softly, her nose turning pink.
“I have three…”
Phaila rolled her head and looked at him from the corners of her eyes.
“Husband and wife.”
Phaila sniffed with disappointment.
“What did you think I was going to say?” He teased and nibbled her neck, bringing goose bumps and laughter.
“Do you like your ring, szeretett?” He examined the one on his finger. The white gold band wide and thick; heavy.
“Very much, Amaras.” She brought her hand closer to her face, turned the band, “it fit better when you first gave it to me.” She pulled it easily from her finger, and tilted it in the light. There was an inscription inside. I am your servant; make me your Lord. Her lips parted.
“Put it back on, you must not take it off,” he took the ring from her and slid it over her finger.
“Nyem, foméhosagú.”
“And Phaila.”
“Igen, foméhosagú?”
“Szeretlek.”


Waking, he rose silently, dressed in clothes that were left for them, brushed out his hair and presented himself outside of Círdan’s door.


“Your Highness,” Amaras bowed, heavy hair sweeping forward.
“My lord,” Círdan smiled and beckoned for him to sit in the chair before his desk, “How does your wife?”
“She sleeps.”
“And yourself? You looked about to drop yourself.”
“I am better, sir” Amaras plucked at his breeches, “I wanted to thank you for this. I do not know what we would have done without you offering us…a haven.” He smiled at the pun, “I will be moving us to other lodgings. I want to pay you back the expense for keeping us, it will take a little time.”

Círdan felt a great twinge of pity for the young pair. They had risked much and on his bare word. His faith restored doubly for here sat Amaras trying to pay rent. He could have laughed.

Círdan hid his smile behind fingers resting thoughtfully against his lips. “I have been thinking on the service you did me in the Guard as captain. How would you like a promotion? I was thinking General of the Southern Guard? You have a wife to support and cannot do it on your wages,” he held up his hand to stop Amaras’ protest, “I do it because you deserve it, Amaras. I wish I had a hundred more like you. And as the General you are replacing is now one of my councilors, you see it is fortuitous timing. It is hardly glamorous, and will be much work. And you will keep your rooms as grace and favour extended to the other Generals and their families.”

“The promotion is meteoric, my lord, how can I accept with so many others more deserving, I am hardly….” Amaras protested.
“There are many above you, yes, but they are ambitious Amaras, too ambitious I fear. If I were feeling more politic I would appoint another, but today, today I am feeling…happy and want to do something for someone who I think is deserving and has proven his worth.”
“You think I am not ambitious, sir?”
“I know you are, but not here.” Círdan smiled. “Your heart lies elsewhere.”
“More the reason to promote someone else.”
“I will, when you leave, but til then, you,” he pointed at Amaras, “are now General of the Southern Guard. Valar, Amaras, no one has ever tried to argue their way out of something so prestigious!”

Amaras drew a breath and Círdan held his hand up, “No, I will hear nothing else you have to say if it is argument.”
“Thank you.”
~~~~~

“Phaila?” He called finding her gone from their bedchamber.
“Kitchen!”

“Kitchen?” He mumbled, “we have a kitchen?” and made his way to the door in the northwest corner. How unnerving to not have noticed it!

She stood, dressed again in her own mended clothing, leaning in the double doors that opened onto a small balcony. Amaras walked to stand behind her, took the doorframe in his hands and leaned over her shoulder the balcony overlooked the back garden with a view of the sea.

“Very py,” y,” he nodded and took a deep breath of sea air and flowers in the garden below. “Do you like these rooms? Do they suit?”
“Oh yes, very much.”
“They are ours,” he murmured as if confiding in her, “I have been promoted to General of the Southern Guard.”

“What?”
“Exactly.” Amaras nodded, “I do not know what he can be thinking.”
“Let us think he knows what he is doing,” she teased and embraced him.
“Come inside, it is chill.” He tugged her through the door. He could feel her bones through her clothes.

“A kitchen, férj, now I can cook for you properly,” she examined the small room. A sink with window, a pantry, a dry box and a small stove and she smiled happily.

He opened the pantry, looked at the recess in the wall for crockery, and glass…all empty. They would need much to turn these rooms into a home…more coin than he carried.

They took their meals in the Hall that day, and the next Amaras went to the guardhouse to begin his transition from captain of a four squadrons of twenty adan, to General of forty squadrons.

Phaila stood in the kitchen with quill, ink and paper and stared into the pantry thinking on what she would purchase. She looked forward to cooking for her husband…the word still sent a shiver up her spine…a true meal, and not some bird on a spit over a fire. She would need so much, thad had nothing to cook with, nothing to eat upon and nothing to eat. She would need to hire a footman or two.

She made her way to Círdan’s steward’s offices, and was announced quickly by his clerk.

“Sir, the Countess Ar-Feiniel.” The ellon announced, standing aside

Isorfir rose from his chair behind the desk, spread with papers to be read. He tugged at his robe and ran his hand quickly over his hair, what is she doing here?

“Good afternoon, My Lady,” he inclined his head to her, surprised.
“Lord Isorfir,” she inclined her head politely, “I am not sure if you are aware that my husband and I are living now in the palace?”
“I had heard, ma’am.”
“I have a bit of a quandary and I was hoping you could assist me.”
“Of course, my lady, I will if it is in my power.”
“You see, Isorfir, I have these,” she untied the pouch on her belt and opening it, shook out two necklaces; one of rubies and one of emeralds, “but no coin…do you see my problem?”
“Oh, My Lady,” he said startled, “You cannot mean…?”
“Yes, my lord, I have a need to part with these frivolities.”


foméhosagú- my lord
nyem - no
igen - yes
drágán kedevelt - dearest beloved
ferj - husband
Szeretlek - I love you