The Phoenix and the Griffin
General of the Southern Marches
“Congratulations, Amaras, General.” Belélith grinned.
“General!”
“There will be no more fun for us!”
“Yes, all fun ends now,” Amaras intoned playfully, “And my first devilment is to appoint you, Uniril as adjutant.”
“Valar, Amaras, not that!”
“Belélith, Díriel,” Amaras turned his look to the pair.
“Oh no.” Díriel moaned.
“You will be my ….”
“Here it comes..” Belélith whispered.
“Commanders.”
“Damn.” Díriel shook his head.
“I know, I know. Your days of larking about are over. I will divide the squadrons between you, the captains will report to you and you in turn will report to me.”
“I must get drunk.”
“I must get very drunk.”
Amaras smiled then assumed a posture of mock irritation and strained patience.
“I have more.”
“It is impossible! There cannot be MORE!” Uniril exclaimed.
“I am married.”
“WHAT?” The three exclaimed in unison.
“For twenty years…”
“Oh now I need the drink!” Belélith looked around the quarters. “May I?” He motioned toward the side table set with a ewer and cups.
“Pour a cup for all.”
A cup in hand, Amaras looked to his friends who stared back with blanched faces.
“Ready?” He asked and related the story. “So you see, some of what you heard was not entirely gossip.”
Belélith, Uniril and Díriel looked to one another stunned into silence for the first time since he had known them.
“I am sorry,” he said, “to have kept so much from you. You have been good friends to me, but I think you understand the need for secrecy.”
“Amaras!’ Uniril exclaimed, “Of course, we are taken aback…all of this time…we should be angry with you and ask for satisfaction…” he smiled, “but I do not even know how to address you at this moment, much less know the formalities for calling you out to the ring!”
“I am Amaras, always Amaras to you….it is my wife who bears the title…”
“I think dinner will be satisfaction enough, don’t you think?” Díriel turned to Uniril.
“As long as it includes a decent wine, what they serve at mess..!”
Uniril embraced Amaras, “Married? All of this time?”
“Yes, married all of this time.” Amaras smiled and held his friend, “but you will have to wait for the reconciliation dinner.” He pushed Uniril to hold him at arms length and glowered. “I have not had my wife to myself long and would appreciate you not descending on us.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Amaras arrived home at dusk; a binder tied closed, full of papers, the names of the members of his sizeable troop, details on them, their schedules, and performance reports. He would be doing much work tonight.
Opening the door the smell of chicken roasting filled his nose. He put the binder on the small desk, and walked to the kitchen and found Phaila, sleeves rolled to the elbows, standing at the counter sipping a goblet of wine, a freshly made salad in a bowl before her.
“I did not hear you come in,” she smiled happily and dried her hands on a small towel.
“What is this?” He asked looking around at kitchen, he had seen this morning magically transformed into, well, a kitchen.
“I went to the market while you were gone,” she kissed him and looked around to see it as he did, beamed pleased.
Plates and goblets stood on the recessed shelves. A small table and two chairs were on the balcony, a simple glass lamp burned on its top in the gloaming. Over the stove hanging from hooks were new pots and pans. He put her gently aside and opened the pantry…spices, sugar, a wheel of cheese, loaf of bread, a tin of tea and butter in a dish wrapped in muslin. In the dry box, he found two pheasants and another chicken hanging from the hooks.
Wood filled the box beside the hot stove. A large pot covered with a lid sat steaming merrily on the stove. A simple vase stood in the windowsill; blooms of red and gold held their heads up in the last of the day’s sun.
“Where did you get the money for this?” He asked aghast.
“I had a little…” she opened the oven and looked at her chicken.
“A little, Phaila?”
“Igen, férj,” satisfied she closed the door and stood to find Amaras almost glaring at her.
“A little what, Phaila? Coin? You never mentioned it.”
All of that riding, and he had handled hits,its, he had heard no jingle of money.
She read his look and brushed by him.
Amaras ran his hand over his face and leaned against the counter, he felt compromised.
“Here,” she handed him a leather pouch the size of both his hands fisted together.
“Your jewelry?” He asked amazed, “You sold … Phaila! This iacceacceptable. I will not have you selling your …”
She stood, her nose turning pink and her jaw clenching, unclenching. “I only wanted to cook you dinner, Amaras.”
She handed him the smaller pouch tied to her belt, heavy with coins. She had not realised how angry he would be, she expected some reaction. She knew his mind; he is proud, he felt it his duty to provide for her. She saw that they needed much, and the jewelry was money sitting and doing nothing but look pretty. Naively she had hoped his pleasure, and understanding would outweigh angry embarrassm
He drew a deep breath. More had born in the anger; guilt that he had not been able to save much money between his meager expenses and bringing her small gifts when meeting her in the forest. Husband; he came as lover offering her trinkets. He had only thought they would continue to eat in the hall until their fortune changed while she had other ideas and the means to bring them to fruition.
He raised and lowered the pouch in his hand feeling its weight as he measured his words.
“Feleség, tetszik, do not sell any more from your treasury?” He asked dropping the pouches on the counter behind him.
“Igen, férj, but it is our treasury now.” She turned away and began mixing the dressing of herbs, vinegar and oil.
Amaras rolled to his left and braced his right hand on the counter, hemming her.
“Köszönöm, Phaila, hálásan köszönöm, I …” he murmured over her shoulder, pressed his cheek against hers.
She laid her hand left hand over his, “Amaras, szeretett, will you light another lamp?”
“Of course,” he kissed her shoulder, ran his right hand up her arm.
“I have much to look through before bed,” he lifted his goblet as they sat at their new table on the balcony.
“I noticed the binder,” she arched a brow in awe.
“I would appreciate your insight…”
“Of course, I would be more than happy to lend a view, I feel already the weight of idleness hanging,” She stood, picked up their plates.
“Thank you for dinner, feleség,” he put his hand on her lean flank beneath soft breeches.
“Anything for you,” she bent and kissed him, straightened and smiled down. Her brow knit, and she put the plates down, tugged open the collar of his shirt and laughed. He wore one of her ruby necklaces.
“What? Do you not like it?” His tone injured as he ran his fingers over the stones. Lifted it to admire, “You did say they were ours.”
“I should have worn the amethysts, it would look better against the brown and crème,” she advised, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing again.
“I will remember that, thank you.”
“If you ever need my advice, coordinating your jewels…all you need do is ask.”
“I will. I think you are right. Amethysts would have gone better.”
Shaking her head, Phaila took up the plates, “You are mad.” She walked into the kitchen. “My husband is mad.”
“Mad,” he whispered, turned in his chair to watch her scrap their plates of bones into the waste bin, “igen, I am mad.”
Amaras spread the papers into different piles before the small fireplace in their bedroom, and picked up the first sheet to read.
Phaila settled behind him, put a goblet of wine on the floor near by, and read over his shoulder.
“Insubordination?” She asked surprised.
“Hmmm, one of the problem fiú.”
“Violent?”
“No, only slow to respond to orders. A little sarcastic in reply…”
“Well, who are we to judge?” She smiled, “Are these all performance reports?”
Amaras handed her the stack, “Igen.”
“For how long?” She laughed.
“This is only two years, there is a cabinet….” He indicated with his hand, full.
“Oh, my…” she stretched out on her side with her back to the fireplace and propped her head in her hand, lay the stack on the floor before her and began to read, “I do not know, Amaras. Should we judge those we have not met? Perhaps there was a personal conflict…I think this a little unfair, to form an opinion based on one of another. This is how we are perceived kedevelt…”
He looked at her, “I am making no judgments, I simply want to know what I have on my hands, I do not care for surprises.”
“Amen,” she brought the paper closer to read.
~~~~~~~
Círdan sent messages to both of their families as to their whereabouts with an addendum that if any harm shoulfallfall either there would be a reckoning with both houses. Not that he feared harm would come to Phaila who was a windfall to the Tur-anions’ and a chess piece to her parents, but he did fear for Amaras’ safety. The Tur-anion saw it only as a matter of form. Círdan waited for a storm from the north; a blast for participating in such a treachery, he prepared his words carefully, but Curanor sent no message back.
Amaras was fully occupied with his position and all of its responsibilities as well as going out for a week to see to the border himself and return for two. Phaila would escort him to his horse, reach up and tug at his cloak or check the buckles of his harness, give him a long kiss, and stand hands folded behind her back to watch him ride away.
She spared with Aranel and even Círdan. She spent much time in the saddle going for long rides, and hunting or sitting in at court learning how to govern or talking with Círdan over the finer points of law and its practical application before the fireplace in his private rooms. She spent much time in the archives and library pouring over maps, treaties, and histories. Círdan found her often in a spot she had claimed for herself. A window seat in the south corner of the library. She would sit cross-legged, or sprawled on her back, legs propped against the shelves a book on her stomach, or she would be merely gazing out onto the sea. A lonely sight. Círdan’s responsibilities kept Amaras gone too often.
Amaras grew very popular among his men; easygoing and always consistent they followed him unwaveringly. The captains under his two commander-friends and Uniril were often invited to their rooms for dinner to talk over the adan once a week. He and Phaila would cook a large meal and lay it on the sideboard and then she would slip away to leave them uninterrupted, and Amaras undistracted.
Amaras and the squadron he had accompanied returned from their patrol. Two weeks from home, and so soon after their arrival; he was hungry for the bed, hungry for his wife. Hesed sed his reins to the stable elf, and looked around. Phaila never met him, always made him look for her. A game they played. The married elves in his troop were always met by anxious wives and happy children; they did not understand the tall Rohmë elf and his marriage. It was beyond them why his wife would not come to meet him in the courtyard on his return, and there were times when Amaras wondered as well.
He stalked the palace, went to their rooms and found them vacant. He smiled at the made bed, the flowers in a vase on the windowsill, the stand of her armor and weapons. He draped his cloak over a chair, dropped his kit on the floor and left to find her.
She had not been to the stable, so she was not riding or hunting. She was not at the archery range, nor was she at the fencing ring. Not in the library.
He walked to the docks. Ships from all of Middle Earth tied up here, it bustled with activity. She would often come to watch, and listen to the news of lands from the south and beyond.
“Look there,” A man said to his companions and turned toward a group of maids, and matrons who waded on the beach. Phaila stood in the sand, no, she danced in the sand, holding the hands of a young ellon; making him squeal with delight as she spun him off his feet; his dark hair flagging to the left. She could be playing witeir eir son; warmth spread in Amaras chest and bloomed deep.
“I love elves,” the man sighed and leaned on a piling to watch the group.
“They are too cool for my taste, but they are beautiful to look upon.” Another man answered, “I like the raven haired one.”
“I am leaning toward the one with silver hair,” his companion answered.
Cool? Amaras thought and tried to see what the men saw. Phaila was not cool; she was far from it with him, but yes, to the casual observer. Men do not see the heat that rose from certain elves, a heat that could ripple the air with its intensity.
Amaras felt slighted for Phaila. Not everyone saw her as he did. She was stunning to his eyes, but overlooked by others more amoured with silver, golden or raven hair and star kissed skin. The Valar had thought to mar us; he smiled, they had not deemed on her and her ability to turn this disgrace into something wondrous.
“I like the one dressed in the tunic, the one with honey hair,” A third man chimed in. Ah, a smart man.
“She is a Dore Rohmë,” the first man enlightened them.
“A what?”
“See her skin? Tan? While the others are white? A Dore Rohmë elf, I wouldn’t go near her, they are cursed.”
“You do not know what you talk about!”
“I do, there is a large population of them in Forlindon, and the Shadow Rohmë are in the south, in Enedwaith and Minhiriath.”
“Shadow Rohmë?”
“Dore, Shadow, they are Rohmë and not to be trifled with, not like other elves…dangerous and unpredictable.”
“I wouldn’t marry her, I would only like to…”
“As if she’d have you!”
Amaras pushed roughly by them, startling them with his strength, he turned his head showing a pointed ear. They clamped their lips over any objection they might have uttered. Amaras jumped from the wharf onto the sand, and walked toward Phaila who was now being chased by the young fiú.
She turned to look at her slower pursuer and skidded to a halt seeing Amaras. The ellon crashed into her and she caught him as he looked up at her startled. She knelt to rest her hands on his shoulders.
“I am sorry, Gérion,” she smiled, “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” He smiled back.
“Gérion, this is Amaras,” she stood introducing him to Amaras who bowed gravely over the fiú.
“You are a General,” Gérion pointed to the badge on Amaras’ tunic.
“I am,” Amaras nodded all seriousness.
“I want to be a captain when I am grown.”
“Do you? Can you pull a bow?”
“Oh yes, but only my little one, my ada will not let me play with his bow, but has told me when I am bigger and stronger will make me one of my own.”
“Is that so? Did he make your little bow?”
“Yes.”
“Is that it?” Amaras pointed to the miniature quiver and bow lying on a blanket in the sand.
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
Gérion retrieved his bow and handed it to Amaras who examined it thoughtfully.
“Your ada is talented, it is very fine.”
“Gérion!” His mother called, walking up, she smiled to Amaras and Phaila.
“He is a General, Nana,” Gérion took the bow that Amaras handed back.
“Yes. He is Phaila’s hervenn.” She put her hand on his head.
“Sidith,” Phaila held her hand out toward Amaras, “Amaras.”
Amaras inclined his head, made the sweeping gesture of greeting.
“Oh?” Sidith cocking her head, “are you back from the border?”
“I arrived an hour ago,” he arched a brow at his wife.
“Say good bye, Gérion,” Sidith instructed her son, smiling. They would want to be on their way then.
“Good bye, General Amaras.”
“Good bye, Gérion,” Amaras inclined his head, “Sidith.”
“General,” She smiled.
“Phaila? When shall we play again?”
“Oh, I am afraid it will be a few days, tithen dîr.”
He looked crestfallen. His mother did not play with as much abandon as his friend Phaila who could run like the wind, and took him for long rides on her horse.
“It will not be too long,” Phaila tipped his chin up and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
“Come Gérion,” his mother beckoned, turned and gave Phaila a knowing smile.
“I was going to chide you.” He kissed her forehead, wrapped his arms around her.
“About what, férj?”
“For always having to hunt you. I was going to ask you why.”
He wobbled his head from side to side feeling foolish now.
“Do you want me to meet you?”
“I only wanted to know why you do not, and I think I know...you are much engaged when I am not home.”
Phaila stepped back from his arms and looked at him.
“I like when you hunt me.”
Amaras laughed, turned and taking her hand drug her behind him across the sand to the laughter of the maids and matrons who knew exactly where he was taking her.
In their rooms, Amaras closed the door behind them and gathered Phaila into his arms, bruised her lips with his own. His first hours home spent locked in the most intimate of embraces.
Clothes were strewn on the floor beside the bed, Amaras ran his hands up her sides as his mouth, teeth and tongue lavished bits and kisses over one breast before moving to the other. Phaila arched under him, hissing and sighing, her hands tangled in his hair. He lifted his head and moved up to catch her open mouth with his; shifted between her thighs, slipped his hand between them to position himself against her wet and ready. She moaned, turned her head on the pillow as he pushed against, then through the tight, hot wet velvet, his hips moving back an inch and forward two until the length of him had run out of inches to give.
“Be still,” he hissed.
“I do not want to be still.” She moved under him.
“Csend,” he nibbled her lips. “I want to relish this feeling of you wrapped around me.”
“Mmm,” she lifted her head trying to kiss him. He raised his head, keeping his lips just out of reach making her moan with frustration. Amaras laid his hand against her cheek, forcing her head to the left and drew his mouth over her throat, up to her ear. Phaila tensed, shivered, her hands on his buttocks dug into his skin.
“Amaras,” she pleaded and he ignored her, licked the tip of her ear before plunging his tongue in the curl of the shell.
“Amaras,” she tried to move under him, hungry for him to move and satisfy the deep ache he pressed against.
“Amaras, tetszik,” her voice a whimper.
“You must stop saying my name, kedvesem,” he groaned.
“Then you must move,” she writhed, “tetszik, ferj, teszik.”
csend - literally BE STILL
tetszik - please
kedvesem - my beloved
ferj - husband