The Phoenix and the Griffin

They rose from the bed at midnight and ate, drank; sat in their robes on the floor before the fireplace.

Phaila watched Amaras as he tucked his hair behind an ear as he broke the oat and honey cake with his fingers. It hurt him that she did not meet him, but he would not say that. Her answer had satisfied him, more importantly it was true. She dwelt in an atmosphere of expectation the entire day of his arrival and struggled to concentrate on conversations and tasks for she continually swiveled her head to look for him.

“I cannot sleep the night before you come home,” she lifted the goblet to her lips. Amaras raised his eyes to hers. This was an admission. “In fact I find it hard to sleep when you are away.”
“I do not know if I like that, kedevelt,” he brushed a stray strand of hair from her lashes. He did not sleep well away from her either.
“Like it or no, férj, I look for you all night.” She handed the goblet to him. A truer statement was nevede, de, like it or no.
“Then a few hours hunting for you is hardly fair exchange.”
“I do not mind in the least férj drágán,” she moved to crawl into his lap, “it makes the time when you are in our bed much sweeter.”
“Ah, then you will grow bored when the day comes I am never gone.” He sighed, “ A no win battle.”
“No, then I will be only slightly more rested and you will not have to spend an hour or so looking for me to carry me into bed, for I will be right there. Will you miss your hunt?”
“Igen meg nyem,” he smiled and pulled her down onto the rug.

“I have been thinking to make the return home more pleasant for all…” he looked at the ceiling. “Something that will ensure you meet me.” He growled.
“Ah ha!” She sat up victorious, “I knew it!”
“Be still,” he pulled her down again, “I was thinking of organizing fêtes for the patrols when they arrive home. They are so good on the border, kedevelt, hardly a complaint. It is a hard turn, and for some very.” He tugged her braid. “They are all volunteers and should be rewarded for their faith and service, it is not the pay that keeps them so.”
“I brilliant idea,” she smiled, propped her chin on his chest, “How can I help you?”
“Can you organise these for me when I am away?”
“Of course, kedvesem.”

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

She bent the bow easily while Círdan stood behind watching. The arrow sank in the target. Círdan notched his arrow and aimed for the butt of hers. Skilled archers all they had to devise some better way of honing their proficiency. They came up with splitting arrows.

“Your Highness,” A footman called, “there are riders from Forlindon.”

Círdan and Phaila looked to one another.

Curanor stood in the Great Hall, his honeyed head bent as Phaila entered with Círdan.

Amaras lurked along the side of the hall; he had received a bludgeoning welcome from her father when he met him in the bailey. Curanor stalked by with Dagnir, Phaila’s surviving brother in tow.

The courtiers filtered in; dawn by boredom and curiosity.

“Your Highness, I would speak to my daughter,” Curanor called.
“I am faithful, my lord you may speak,” Phaila called back and held on to Círdan’s wrist as Amaras moved along the wall toward her. Her father was a joy to her eyes; she missed him terribly.
“Phaila, daughter,” Curanor lifted his chin, “Your mother is dead.”

Phaila gasped and jerked struck by his words. Amaras walked swiftly to her, put his arm across her chest to grasp her shoulder.
“I am sorry, szeretett,” he whispered to her, and she wrapped her hand around his arm.
“Come home daughter, come home, I need you.” Curanor softened his voice; he loved her so.
"Enyem Anya? Dead?"
"Killed, Phaila, she was killed...." Dagnir explained
“Szeretlek, tetszik, Phaila come home, leave this marriage.” Curanor begged across the expanse of floor.
“I cannot.” A whisper.
“I will give you anything you ask, child.” He stood honey hair hanging over his shoulders, fell to his waist, resplendent in his mourning black, his fur-trimmed cloak tossed back revealing a broad chest that strained his tunic; green gold eyes pled across the brown stone floor that separated them.

Dagnir stood, the image of his father, looking dismally at the floor. He loved his sister more than he loved anyone who walked the earth, had missed her terribly and was torn between duty and his affection for her when she had fled with the sapphire-eyed Tur-anion bastard who stood now, a General of the Havens, holding his sister while she quivered with grief. His brother now.

“Do not taint our blood with Tur-anion, come away before there is a child, you can still make a better match, there are many who would take you for wife.”
“Atya,” Dagnir said dismally reaching for his father’s arm, but Curanor shook him off.
“Your Grace…” Amaras began trying tach ach his father-in-law before the insults deepened to unforgivable.
“Do not speak to me, you are a thief!” Curanor shouted.
“Foméhósagú herceg, tetszik…” Amaras began again.
“Do not speak again,” Curanor hissed and touched the hilt of his sword, “Tolvag!”
“Your Grace!” Círdan chided angrily.
“Come home, Phaila,” Curanor ignored him.

Phaila took a step away, and she knelt at Amaras’ feet, her face turned up.

“I will leave your house, husband when I am carried out and laid in our tomb. I am Phaila, Countess Ar-Feiniel no more, but am Phaila Tur-anion and am contented.” She spoke clearly to be heard by all.
“Wretched and ungrateful child!” Curanor shouted at her.
“Igen, my lord Atya, I am wretched that you turn from me when I love you more dearly than you know, but I am not ungrateful to you.” she answered turning on her knees to face him, “Give me a kiss, Atya, and then think on me no more for the grief I have caused you, my Anya, Padithir and you Dagnir…”
“I gave you a kiss, lány, five years ago, and you broke my heart for it.” Curanor whirled away leaving Dagnir to stare at his sister who sat on her heels before her husband, Círdan and his entire court.
“Atya! Tetszik, Atya!!” She shouted plaintively after him, the click of his heels on the floor his answer.

Amaras bent to put his hand on her shoulder. Lifted his head at Dagnir’s approach; narrowed his eyes a warning to Dagnir he would not endure any further mistreatment of his wife.

Dagnir dropped to one knee, “Phaila.”
“Do not rebuke me Dagnir, not you.” She commanded with a voice full of tears.
“No,” he gave her a wan smile and she fell into his arms.

“Clear this room,” Círdan commanded angrily, unbelieving that he had stayed to hear such a thing; afraid to leave them.

They clung together; brother and sister united in their grief and love for one another. Too public a place to wail, Phaila shook with effort and shed quiet tears. Satisfied all threat had passed Amaras moved toward the door.

“Brother,” Dagnir called over Phaila’s shoulder, “do not go.”

Amaras froze, turned slowly to look with disbelief on Dagnir, “Igen, báty.” Dagnir nodded and stood, raising Phaila to her feet. Amaras’ sad countenance changed to one of astonishment and he walked quickly to Dagnir and embraced him. They stepped back to look at one another closely. The ground had shifted quickly for Amaras, how to feel on this brother who had called him bastard.

“I am sorry, Amaras, for my father’s inability to accept you.”
“And you do Dagnir?”
“For fourteen years Amaras, I have accepted you…” Dagnir answered, the weight lifting from his shoulders, “I have known all this time. Can you forgive me? What I said?”

Amaras smiled, “Is nothing I had not heard before.”
“Oh Dagnir,” Phaila murmured.

“My Lord, His Grace you father is calling for you.”
“Tell him I will follow later, I am speaking with my sister and my brother.” Dagnir answered and the servant blanched.

“Come to our rooms,” Amaras tugged Dagnir’s arm, “give Círdan back his hall.”

Phaila took Dagnir’s cloak from his shoulders, as Amaras poured wine for them as they sat before the fireplace. Phaila lay her head on her brother’s shoulder, put her hand os kns knee and began to cry. Amaras walked from the room. There was more to this single grief, a multitude of sorrows had landed on her shoulders.

He walked the gallery, hung out of a window and closed his eyes in the sea air to breath deeply. It had begun. He had lost one brother, as had she, and now she had lost her mother. It came quickly as he had predicted.

Amaras returned two hours later. He paused in the door; quietly shut it behind him.

They were curlogetogether on the sofa; brother and sister. Dagnir lay on his back with Phaila’s head on his chest; he stroked her hair as they stared into the fire. She held a handkerchief in her fist, eyes red, and nose raw.

Amaras knelt down beside the sofa to run his own hand over her head, gazed into sad eyes and gave her a soft smile.

“Stay with us for a while, brother,” Amaras said and lay his hand on Dagnir’s leg, “give my wife some pleasure. I am so often away, and I do not want her alone during this time.”

Dagnir smiled and covered Amaras’ hand with his own while Phaila propped her chin on his chest to look at him.

“Of course,” he answered and Phaila lunged up to kiss his cheek and crawled over him to tackle Amaras who fell back with her in hiss; “s; “Hálásan köszönöm férj,” she kissed Amaras, and pushed herself up from him, turned to Dagnir who lay on the sofa smiling, “I will see to getting your rooms.”

Amaras and Dagnir reed oed one anothrom rom their supine, exposed positions. Dagnir sat up, put his feet on the floor feeling suddenly very vulnerable, awkward alone with his sister’s husband.

“She was very hurt by her, your anya’s abandonment of her,” Amaras stood, “do not think her….”
“Oh, Amaras you neet ext explain her to me!” Dagnir laughed, “She gives it a few moments, and then she runs, nyem, flies from grief!”
“But never far…she will land and study it from a safe distance.”

Dagnir nodded appreciatively, grateful her husband understood.


kedevelt - beloved
drágán - dearest/dear
kedvesem - my beloved
Igen meg nyem - yes and no]
Szeretlek - I love you
Enyem - my/mine
Hálásan köszönöm férj - thank you very much, husband
feleseg - wife
nyem - no
igen - yes
lany - daughter
báty - brother