The Phoenix and the Griffin

Dagnir stared at Amaras when he was told. He felt as Amaras did as much as a brother who loved his sister could. Afraid. But bred, as Phaila hid it, turned it.

“We grew up watching our anya ride away, Amaras, never knowing if she would come home; forget when!” Dagnir shuddered, “I am only her brother. I cannot imagine what you feel on this.”

“I should go…I could…”
“You should stay, Amaras…she has done this before. You must trust her. She will think you believe she is weak. Our atya did this to our anya once, but only once…. I believe their fight lasted the entire ride home, and two weeks after. He broke his hand smashing the wall beside her head. Oh, no,” he held his hand up when Amaras’ eyes widened with shock, “he never lay a violent hand on her, but he did tear the room apart. We have his terrible temper Amaras, you do not want her unleash what she has taken her life to collar. I think it would break her heart if it were you who moved her so.”

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

Amaras walked for days in a fog of desolation. He could not bear the bed and rooms alone. He fled the chambers and spent more time than usual among the squadrons who were on the border.

Phaila had understood this need in him to be loved by everyone, and how he despised those who set themselves above others. He believed his rank did not set him so high that he could not share their turns, and discomforts while in the field. He sat at their fires, assisted in cooking meals, stood watch as nighthawk. Singly he listened to their complaints; privately he listened to their troubles and good news. He sat tolerantly through suggestions shouted en mass. They were much comfort for him now. Heads had cocked, lips had murmured; the general’s wife is away, fighting in some town, some village, some mud hole, see the shadow on him?

He worked them hard, expected much and rewarded them appropriately. Every returning sortie was celebrated out of his own pocket with casks of wine, a hot dinner, lively music. Wives and sweethearts waiting, smiling, dressed in their finest. The ellon joyful in their homeward bound ablutions in some stream, creek or river’s edge the day they were to ride home. All exhaustion and irritation, petty squabbles fled as they swam or washed, tossing soap to one another. A towel snapping at a bare buttock that brought up a mark, a yelp, and a merry chase ending in a wrestling match and much laughter. A clean shirt, tunic and breeches carried for two weeks emerged from kits, shaken and pulled on. Boots polished with a dirty shirt, they would sit and comb out their hair, and braid it back and ride lustrously home.

Phaila organised the soirees for him, and stood aside when they were greeted by wives and lovers. Amaras and she would melt away to make their own reunion before joining the revelry. With Phaila gone, he had had to coordinate these festivities on his own, and relied heavily on Maltafuinien to assist him. He had not realised how much work it took and mused on this as they rode through thees.ees.

He stood apart and watched as his adan were greeted by hervess or hiril. He slid from his horse and handed the reins off to the horse master, took a goblet of wine offered on a tray and strolled away feeling the loneliest creature that ever lived. He would stay, not willing to slink away simply because his wife served elsewhere, but guilt sealed his throat. His lady wife this night was doing only what the Valar could see, eating a fine meal was not what he imagined and it made his gorge rise.

“Come, Amaras,” Delilad urged softly, “eat something.”
“I am not very hungry, Delilad. Is this your lady? I have heard many sweet things of you. You are very pretty, too pretty for him.” He bowed before the elleth who clung to Delilad’s arm.
“General,” she smiled shyly at her sweetheart’s superior, “where is your wife tonight? She is not unwell I hope.”
“Go dance, go sing,” Amaras urged smiling, “go make love.” He whispered to Delilad and pushed him gently away.
“Amaras…” Delilad implored.
“Go.” Amaras smiled; a command mixed with entreaty in his voice.

“What is wrong, Delilad? Was it wrong to ask on his wife? Has something happened? He seems…”
“Sssh, his wife is away in Calembel fighting…”
“Wha…?”
“Come I will explain it to you…”

He lay in a tossed bed. The sheets clean did not smell of her; deepening her absence. He slept fitfully waking as he reached for her, finally tucking the pillow under him to doze until sunrise. Guilt trailed him as he rose from the bed. He slept on a soft mattress and sheets smelling of herbs hung on the line as they dried. Where did she make her bed, on the cold floor of a hall, her mattress a cloak, her pillow a saddle, or laying in the muck along the wall? He drank tea, milk and honey…her drink and bit into a piece of toast, spread with sweet, fresh butter; his throat closed. Oh szeretett, oh kedvesem….he packed a fresh kit, took his dirty clothes to the laundress and went to the barracks.

Amaras sat and watched as the mounted marchers rode by. It was November, time of the autumn storms. The month of their birthdays, his two days before hers – a week away and pondered what to give her. Rain fell heavily, and a cold wind blew. Even this reminded him of his absent wife…he sighed heavily, smiled, it was useless to seek distractions…she followed him everywhere.

“A rider comes,” Belélith peered through thentinnting rain, “It is Uniril.” He turned toward Amaras puzzled. Uniril was Amaras’ adjutant, and in charge while he was on the border.

He knit his brow, it must be very important for him to come himself and was slammed with realisation. Paled. No, he would have known if she had fallen, he felt her still.

“Do not, Amaras,” Delilad said quickly noting his General and friend’s loss of complexion, “Wait for the news, do not presume.”

Uniril’s eyes found Amaras and he smiled as he greeted Amaras.

“You see!” Belélith exhaled with relief.
“I came to replace you General, you are asked to come home!” Uniril laughed.
“Belélith, will you…?” Amaras beamed a smile as bright as a lighthouse beacon
“Of course.”

Amaras spurred his horse.

“Thank the Valar,” Delilad muttered, Uniril nodded.

Amaras ran to their rooms. Slamming the door shut behind him he leaned against it breathing heavily with elation, and rushed to the open door of the bath.

She was exhausted, and ill. She was thin, looked so small as she sat in the steaming bath. She hissed a breath of joy, rose on her knees and clung to the side of the tub. Instantly he was standing over, taking her chin in his hand and bending over her to kiss her lips as she tipped her head further back. His hair fell around them a wet, wood fragrant drape.
“Valar,” he murmured against her lips. He laid his hand on her forehead, “but you are feverish.”
“Tebrilad is bringing something,” she took his wet braid and held him for another kiss, “I have been missing you, férj.”

He stripped off his wet clothes, dropped them on the floor and crawled into the hot water, took her face in his hands and kissed her hungrily. He drew back and ran his thumbs over her eyebrows.

“Excuse me!” Tebrilad gasped and turned his face away as he stood in the great room and from his position he had a perfect view of them in the bath. Phaila scooted down in the tub, and Amaras laid his arm across its edge to give her more cover, “I brought something for your lady’s fever.” Tebrilad said with averted face, “I will leave it…ah, here on the mantle. I am having stew brought up, eat all that you can!” Tebrilad exited hastily, deeply embarrassed.
“Thank you!” Amaras laughed.

Amaras continued his examination of the scrapes, bruises before touching the stitches on her arm, frowned, “Whose handiwork was this? A butcher? Turn round, let me wash your hair, look at these tangles, feleség, what have you been combing it with straw?”

She began to shiver as he worked the sweet almond oil through the wet strands of her hair and wrapped his arms around her briefly before standing up and stepping out of the tub and holding his hand out to her. He swathed her in her robe while she stood teeth clicking with ague.

Amaras held the bowl and spoon, fed her as she sat in their bed, propped against pillows. “Now drink this,” he held the wine to her lips.

She fell asleep quickly holding his hand in a grip that slowly slackened. Amaras pulled a chair close beside the bed and touched the cool, wet cloth to her forehead. She tossed in her sleep with illness and battle nightmares…she cried out a warning that woke her with wild, terror filled eyes, flinched when he reached for her; growled a terrified warning and grabbed his wrists, her nails digging into the skin.
“You are home, griffmadár, home and safe.” Amaras murmured comforting her. Her eyes reshaped themselves from defensively slitted to meekly round and erupted into relieved and stricken tears.
“Amaras.”

He had done this after a particularly brutal battle. Fear, anger and loss coupled with the physical fatigue left one wrung like a rag. He had found a quiet, secluded spot, laid his head against the cold stones, and wept like a child. She had brought it home.

The urge to say a charm over her broke like a wave on him. This was something that they had promised never to do one another; Phaila explained it felt like a violation. He dipped the cloth in the cool, herb scented water and laid it on her forehead again. Wiped her eyes and cheeks.
“Water?”
She nodded.
He picked up the cup and took her head in his hand, the hair wet and she shivered, teeth clattered against the porcelain cup. He set it aside and drew the blanket and heavy fur coverlet up to her chin. She latched onto his hand quaking with more than fever.

He wanted to ask her of the battle, there had been an event, one among the horrors expected that had unhinged her. He understood. There are incidents one will witness, one can speak of, even laugh about, and there are others that words would never form nor lips utter.

“I will watch over you, kedvesem,” he assured her, stroking his hand over her forehead, brushing away the damp hair.

Her fever mounted, broke at mid-day; leaving her in a sweat steeped bed and at last slept without fear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Belélith, Uniril and Delilad stopped by to pay their respects to Amaras and see how his wife fared; each bringing a small bouquet of flowers to brighten her during her illness.

Phaila sat in their bed with four vases of flowers decorating the sill behind their bed.
“I like yours best,” she said handling the latest bundle of flowers picked from meadow, or forest path.
Amaras subdued a smile, gave her a jealous glower.
“I’m going to have a talk with them, and then one with you to find out just what it is that warranted such an affectionate display from three ellon. Feleség.”
“Your flowers need freshening, férj,” she turned to put the vase on the sill, smiled.
Amaras sat and took her arm brusquely and pushed the long sleeve of her nightgown up to examine the stitches, “I think these can come out.” He touched the black thread in her flesh, “and I will bring you more flowers.”
“Will you, Amaras?” She teased, and gave her head an exaggerated tilt of coquettishness.
“Feeling better?” He asked and tugged at the buttons of her nightdress.
“The stitches, szeret now or later?”
“Later,” his voice a pebbled beach.

griffmadár - griffin
feleség - wife
kedvesem - my beloved
szeret - love