The Phoenix and the Griffin

Invited to stay, Dagnir lingered, and kept Amaras company as well when Phaila was called twice away to serve.

Amaras had risen from their bed when she was gone so long her side of the bed lay cold. She stood dressed in their great room, folding clothing quickly to stuff it into her kits; her armor tied together, her weapons lying in the chair.

“What are you doing?” He asked perplexed.
“I have to go, I have been summoned,” she answered not looking at him, afraid to look at him.
“What?”
“I am called to serve,” she said and tied the kit closed, “Catembel.”
“Catembel, are you serious?”
“The sibyl has called, I must go not stand and talk on going.”
“They are besieged? It is well over three hundred leagues from here Phaila. It will take you too long a time to reach them.”
“I will take a ship to Edehellond and ride from there, it is only seventy miles from the port.”
“And once you get there what will you do? How can you help them if you cannot reach them?”
“I will reach them,” she answered quietly, barked a laugh, “I will at last get to use the sword you forged for me!”
“How CAN you reach them? It is suicide!” and stepped toward her. Phaila flung up her hand and Amaras walked into an invisible wall. He staggered back, blinking against the pain from his nose, and reached out tentatively and found…nothing.

“Do that again,” he whisper winded with amazement.

Phaila lifted her hand, palm facing him and slowly motioned forward. Amaras felt a warm, mattress of pressure from forehead to toe, mold the length of his body tenderly, and was firmly, powerfully forced back four steps before she lowered her hand.

“Feleség, how long have you had this ability and not shown it me til now?”
“I have it only when the sibyl beckons, Amaras.”
“How long can you sustain it?”
“It is draining, not long.”
“Then use it prudently.” He walked to her, grasped her by the arms; she trembled, and at his touch her teeth chattered.

She pulled from him when he drew a breath to speak and wiped her face. “Help me with my weapons, drágán?”
Amaras shook as he held the braces open and she slid her arms through the straps that secured the knives and sword to her back. She fastened the buckle.

She is going. Eru, she is going!

“Do not …” Amaras choked on his words, “do not lose hope, Phaila, that will kill you as surely as a sword or arrow.”
She nodded and pulled on her gloves.
“Wait, I will help you, tetszik, let me dress I will be quick.”
Phaila nodded keeping her head down.

In the bedchamber, he did dress with haste, walked into their great room trying desperately to button his shirt with bloodless fingers.

“Here,” Phaila brushed his fingers aside and pushed the buttons through their mated slits. He stared into her down turned face, throat closing, awash in fear.

He took her right hand, drew the palm to his lips before laying it against his cheek, inhaled a stuttering breath, and gave a smile that was unable to gain purchase on his lips.

Amaras carried the two leather kits, Phaila her armor they strode down the lamp-lit and silent hall.

“You will have to tell Dagnir good bye for me, and to Círdan make my apologies, I will not be able to go sailing with him this week, ” she murmured.
“Of course,” Amaras stared at her profile as they moved; memorized her face. Sailing. No, Your Highness, my wife throws herself on the wall and will be unable to attend you.

He saddled Mora for her. Phaila swayed from side to side, the call was almost unbearable; she rippled with excitement while her heart hung a lead bell that clanged dully in her breast as she watched Amaras. He whose fingers were so nimble could not work the buckles of the girth, fumbled with the curb chain of the bridle as he tried to smooth the links. He rippled too with fright and second-guessing. She touched his hand, calming him and he ran the o-ring through the catch.

“No,” he pulled from her, frowning, “no Morrigan magic. No charm. When you have gone, there will be no comfort. Let me feel as I feel.”


He tied the kits behind the cantle and turned to her, grabbing her, kissing her deeply, tasting her, breathing in her breath, exhaling his, trying to lodge some of his will into her. She is so young and inexperienced!

He gave her a leg up into the saddle; mounted behind her taking the reins he kicked Mora to walk on.

They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched as the horse was carefully led across a wide plank onto a ship.

“Sail back to me, kedevelt.” He wrapped her in his arms before all who watched from the commandeered ship. This is the Morrigan whom they were roused in the dead of the night to sail? They peered from the rigging, from the stern and bow. Hardly intimidating, as she clung to the taller dark elf, his hair blowing around, obscuring them; her magic must be calamitous.
“I will fly back to you,” she breathed against his cheek.

She stood against the rail of the ship clinging to his hand, letting go slowly only when the ship moved from the dock forcing her.

“I love you.” She whispered walking toward the stern of the ship, its sails snapping over her head.
“I love you more.” He answered following to the end of the pier, drinking her in wrapped in her cloak of scarlet.


Amaras watched her ship a darker shape than the sky and sea until it disappear from his sight. He stood stiffly, arms folded across his chest, his hair whipping in the wind. He walked slowly back to the fortress and on to their rooms.

He sat stunned on the sofa with a goblet of wine. How quickly that had happened! She was gone in a matter of minutes! He ran his hand through his hair, recounted their day, their evening. A quiet day spent idly. They had had breakfast, taken their bows and spent a few hours at the archery range. Lolled on their sofa reading, he had reviewed the weeks rotation, approved requests for leave, for changes in scheduled turns on the borders. They had eaten dinner with Dagnir in their rooms, laughing and talking, playing cards. Dagnir had left to find some late night amusements and Amaras and Phaila had slipped into the bath. They had crawled into bed and made love then fallen asleep. A day no different from others. The normalcy lay in shards. It was not an average day; it had been the dawn of the day she sailed away.

She was compelled to rise from their bed noiselessly and pack hurriedly, no doubt hoping to have it done completely before waking him. She hated goodbyes; they shredded her. They gutted him.

Emotions collided with logic, whirled away to fragment, only to smash against one another again. Love, fear, anger, doubt, and hope, and fear overwhelmed all. Would she survive? He had witnessed her ability in the ring, at the butts, but never had she been tested so extremely before his eyes. Skill is useless if there is panic, a moment’s hesitation, if fright shackled one to the ground. She had nerve, and she possessed patience. Brave? Who could say no?

This is not how it was revealed to him; their parting. It was years yet, and on a plain. Not like this. Moreover, he was the one who would die. The vision, fate, though could mislead, there were factors unexpected, which came from out of the shadows. He must not lose hope; it killed as surely as arrow or sword.

He rubbed his forehead, stared at the rug. New. Crimson with a darker claret pattern. She had held it up while he had sat in this exact spot to examine the weave and texture. She had given it a good snap as she laid it before the fireplace and stood back, tilted her head at its’ placement.
“What do you think, Amaras? I would rather a sheepskin. I could not find one I liked, but this is pretty.” She had knelt to feel its thickness between her thumb and forefinger. She took pleasure in such simple things, he had thought as he smiled and gazed at her.

A new, goddamned rug.