The Phoenix and the Griffin

“Beren is dead,” he whispered, “killed by thieves.” Amaras stood before the fireplace with a letter in hands that trembled, and he looked to Phaila who watched him from her place on the sofa.
“What?”
“A week ago….my father wants me to come to Lond Daer….”

Phaila stood, touched his hands. “I am sorry.”
Amaras nodded, “Oh, Phaila, if this means what I think it means….”
“Elenriel can have another child.”
“Would we, my heart?” He asked.
“We are not creatures such as Elenriel.” Phaila answered almost bristling with the association, “Do not compare us with her and your father.”
Amaras looked at the letter, “I do not know.”
“I will go with...”
“No,” he answered quickly, sharply, “no, I do not trust him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was led to his father’s private rooms. The steward knocked softly on the door.
“Eljön,” came Saeros’ soft call.

“Your Grace,” The steward began to announce Amaras who entered without it.

Saeros stood looking out of the windows, his dark hair hung over the shoulders of his black mourning garb.
“I am happy you decided to come, Amaryou you delayed so long, I thought you were afraid to come to me.”
“I am not afraid of you, sir.”

Saeros revolved and took in the form of his surviving son.

“You have not brought your wife?”
“No, sir, she is home….”
“Pregnant?” His father smiled hopefully.
“No, sir.”
“Ah.” He bowed his head, “You are waiting then? I am surprised after all the time you have had to…”
“Did you bid me come to talk of my wife, sir? We could have exchanged letters to do this.”

Saeros waved his hand, and walked to a small table and poured two goblets of wine, brought one to his son.

“No, I was trying to be polite to you, and not doing well at all.”
Amaras took the goblet and said nothing.

“Yournourn Beren,” Saeros noted Amaras’ attire of black.

Amaras’ brow knitted, “Of course, he was my brother, and I loved him. Why are you surprised?”

Saeros gave a wan smile, “Because he had what you should have and did not.”
“This was not Beren’s doingr.” r.”

“Call me Atya, Amaras, tetszik, I am still that, angry with me as you are it is still so.”
“Igen, Atya.” Sarcasm.

Amaras raised the goblet to his lips, his eyes on his father’s.

They stood staring at one another. Amaras bristling, his father stiff.

“Why am I here, Atya?”
“You know why.”
“No, my lord I do not.” His reply clipped.

Saeros swiveled on his heel and walked back to the window fighting the urge to grab Amaras and shake him with pure frustration, “You are my only child Amaras, my last son. Elenriel…” he cleared his throat, “she has retreated to her rooms and turns her face from me over this decision of mine.”

Amaras’ heart began to pound.

“I am raising you, Amaras, you are my heir. I will have no more children.”

Am sai said nothing, stared intently at his father’s broad shoulders and the glossy dark hair that fell to his waist; waited as his father peered cheerlessly out the window.

“I know you hate me for how I have treated your mother, I deserve this. I should have married her, but….”
“This is not necessary…” He muttered hoarsely, cleared his throat.
“Let me, do this Amaras,” he made a helpless gesture with his hand. “There were pressures to marry elsewhere. This you have suspected no doubt. I loved your mother, Amaras and loved you, I wanted you, you would not be here had it been otherwise.”

Phaila had suggested this possibility the night of their binding. Amaras stood sickened, mouth dry. The ground he had trod all of his years had dropped from under him.

“I was not brave enough, nothing like you.” Saeros kept his back to his son, blue eyes looking unseeing across the roiling ocean spread before him, “I could not take your mother and run, nor married her and kept it secret until I could lead her forth.” He smiled, “I turned my heart against your mother and you. When your brothers were born all was brought back to me, holding you the night you were born.”

Amaras rocked, his mother had never told him this, but she never spoke to him on his father, beyond trying to explain to him the lack of one at home. She had never spoken ill of Saeros for she loved him terribly, and wept on her bed for him.

“It broke my heart riding from you that night, and what was used to mend the fragments all but burned you from its memory,” he looked to the sky, “until a storm would blows in from the sea and I would remember the night I held you. The month of November is particularly difficult.” Saeros smiled and touched the glass of the window, November, the month of storms. “Your wife is November begot as well is she not?”

Amaras’ throat constricted as he stared at his father’s broad shouldered back. “Igen.”

“I tried to stay out of your life, Amaras, and away from your mother…I sent for you, I know it confused you, I know how much…grief it brought you, but,” he turned to Amaras, “I loved you. Valar, Amaras I loved you terribly; it never left me. You will understand when you hold your first child.” He gave a smile

“I cannot do this…” Amaras set the goblet down, held his hand up to stop the flow of words and started to the door, “I cannowtmosten!” He grabbed the doorknob, pulled the door open and his father’s hand slammed it closed.

“I loved you…I love you.”
“Do not,” Amaras mumbled staring at the door.
“I love you, Amaras, fiú,” his father lay his hand on his head, caressed down to the strong neck beneath the cloak of hair.

Amaras knocked his father’s hand away, looked into his face with gleaming eyes.
“And how you treated me? Was that cowardice too? It seemed only cruel to me.”
“Guilt is a strange animal, fiú,” his father shook his head, “at times it is no bigger than a mouse, and one treats it as one does a mouse, other times it is as a firedrake.” He gave a grim smile. “You are my dragon, Amaras. I was afraid of what would occur if I tried to pet you. Afraid I would crack, and throw my wife from the house, call your mother to me, set you before Díriel and Beren…” his father’s voice broke, he gave a harsh sob and covered his eyes with one hand.

Amaras wrapped his arms around his father.

Saeros clung to his surviving child, a grown férj with a feleség of his own now and wept at the loss of years.

“Ugyan már, Atya, sit,” Amaras pulled back, held his father’s arm and led him to the set of chairs before the fireplace and sat him down, and handed him his goblet, “Ivás, Atya.” Amaras pulled up a footstool and sat at his father’s feet, a place he had never been before this night.

Saeros drew his right hand over his face, wiping at the tears and looked to his son.

“Valar, but you are striking,” he smiled and lay his hand against Amaras’ cheek, “Tetszik, tell me of your wife, Amaras. Does she treat you well?”
“Very well, Atya.”
“I was concerned that you chose a Morrigan, Amaras, I will not lie.”
“I did not choose, Atya, she was chosen for me.”
“She is your true mate then.”
“Igen, Atya she is.”

Saeros’ eyes grew soft. “Tell me of your wife.”
Amaras smiled, “What would you like to know about her Atya, she is very complicated.”
“As are you.”

Phaila held the letter from her husband, this one bid her come to Lund Daer. She examined the writing she knew so well, it did not look strained, and there was no tremble in his hand.


Amaras stood on the pier in his riding coat, his hair blowing back from his face. He broke into a smile when he saw her.

Phaila ran down the gangplank and threw herself into his arms.
“What is happening?” She asked, drawing back, she looked around warily.
“He is doing it, Phaila.” He drew his hands over her face, “I sent for you to see me made Count.”

She rode before him, his arm wrapped around her waist. She held on to that arm and leaned into his chest. He thrummed with excitement, over-flowed. She leaned sideways and nuzzled his neck, making him smile. He turned his head and captured her mouth for a long, deep kiss.

“We have been talking,” Amaras answered her quiet, disquiet, “I will tell you all when we get to our rooms, oh, I have been missing you.” He held her tightly, kissed her again and gave a hungry sound.

Phaila laid her hand on his leg.

In their rooms, fine rooms, Phaila noted, nothing like the ones he was relegated to those years past. Maltafuinien and Lómelad, Amaras’ squire busily unpacked, and Amaras drew her into their sitting room.

“How is Elenriel taking this news, Amaras?”
“Not well, you were right, she wanted to have another child, but my atya …”
“And she?”
“Has removed herself from his rooms and will not speak with him.” Amaras poured her wine.
“Should you sound so happy about that?” She took the goblet, and set it aside to unbutton her coat, shrugged it off.

Amaras drew up, “Is that how I sound?”
“Igen, férj…” she arched an eyebrow and nodded.
“I cannot help it, feeling how much she interfered…”
“Amaras!” Phaila was shocked, “Your father is not a fiú to be ordered about. Much of what he did was …” she exhaled held up her hand before picking up her goblet.

“No, finish what you were saying…” Amaras prompted, holding his guilty anger in check.

Phaila gave him a doubting look, “You would not like what I would say, and it has been a fortnight…Amaras, can we not…”
“Tell me, Phaila.”
“You are more forgiving than I, szeretett, that is all.” She found neutral ground.
“You cannot understand how I can forgive him?”

Phaila arched her brow again.
“He is my father, Phaila.”
“Igen,” her tone sarcastic, “he is that.”
“I love him.”
“Igen you do.”
“Abbahagy!!”

Phaila whirled and walked to the fireplace. “Love him, Amaras,” she spoke to the flames, “You have always loved him, no matter how much you told yourself the opposite. Forgive him, Amaras you have waited long enough to do so.”

Amaras took a deep breath pondered what would rouse such temper from her. She hurt and missed her father who still sent her letters to him back, the seals unbroken.
He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Come, he has asked for you.”
She gave a wan smile, nodded.

His father rose from his seat before his own fireplace. He dressed still in black, as had Amaras. Phaila being only brother-sister, and not knowing Beren well, respectfully, prudently dressed in shades of gray.

Saeros was as striking as his son, though her feeling towards the former coloured her opinions of him. His hair was black, while Amaras’ was a rich brown, his eyes had not the same clarity of deep blue, nor did he have his son’s wonderful cheekbones and generous mouth. Still, there was no doubt that he had fathered her husband.

“Your Grace,” She inclined her head to him.
“Lady,” Saeros bowed his own, “lány.” He smiled.

He stepped toward her and she steeled herself, offered her cheek for a chaste kiss.

“How was your journey? Fair winds? Come sit,” he took her hand and led her to the chairs.
“Yes sir.”

Amaras handed her wine.
“How odd you must find this,” Saeros took the goblet from his sons’ hand and sat down crossed his long legs.

Phaila only blinked, waiting.

“I think …”
Phaila looked at Amaras sharply, he had never thought for her before. He was struggling.
“Yes, odd is a good word to start with, sir.”
“Please, call me Saeros, I realise you have a father.”
“Saeros,” she nodded and sipped her wine.
“He is my son.”

Phaila’s lips cu at at the corners and Amaras leaned against the mantle, chewed his lower lip.

“It is between you and Amaras, I will not interfere. I am relieved for this reconciliation.” She said coolly.
“You will see I am sincere, Phaila.”
“I do not doubt you, Your, Saeros, you must forgive me. I was raised to be cautious.”
“I know it is not because I am Tur-anion!” Saeros laughed, “It is wise to be so, only do not let it paralyze you.”
“I will not.”

He regarded her.

“You have the look of your sire,” he said finally.
“I was thinking how Amaras looks much of you.”

“Hmmm,” Saeros roused himself, “The coronation will be in a week, you will be invested with the title of Countess beside my son, in accordance to his wishes.”

Phaila glanced at Amaras who stood turning his goblet round in his hand, smiling he raised his eyes to hers.

“Are you surprised?” Saeros asked.
“Yes,” she smiled. “You might have said something.”
“It was meant to be a surprise.” He moaned, rolled his eyes and leaned toward her.
“It is a wonderful surprise,” Phaila rose from the chair and embraced him, “and a generous gift, hálásan köszönöm, Amaras.”
“One of many,” he snaked his arm around her waist, kissed her cheek.

Saeros slid his eyes away, “I shall send for dinner to be brought up, you must be starved, and will not want to face the court just yet.”

“Saeros?” Phaila turned in her husbands’ arm, “what says your court on this marriage?”
“What it has always said, Phaila….” He rose to his feet.
“That my son is mad,” he smiled.

Phaila stood stiffly for a moment and then began to laugh.

“And what is said of the order of succession now?” She held her smile, “what of your brothers’ sons?”
“Ah,” Saeros nodded, “Your wife has a politic mind, Amaras.”
Amaras exhaled sharply. Yes, she did. And she waited for the answer.
“There is a slight dissent,” Saeros said finally.

Phaila ma soa soft sound, a hum. In his arms, Amaras felt her body change. What was soft and yielding was now tense, her muscles bunched.

“They will make an oath….”
The corners of Phaila’s lips curled, Amaras looked away.
“You may have to fight for it.” Saeros ended. He pulled the bell cord beside the fireplace to call for dinner.

She walked to the windows, pulling from Amaras’ grasp, leaving father and son to stare at one another.

Wind rattled the panes of glass, and a slanting rain fell. Peace. No peace for them…peace still loomed beyond the bend of the world. A tense silence filled the air.

Saeros cocked his head at Amaras, and walked from the room.

“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why do you make it so difficult, you are not surprised, had considered this the moment you held my letter in your hands.”
“Why indeed? You are right, I cannot imagine why I should not be happy that we will receive your cousins, accept their kiss of peace and most likely kill them later. I have much enjoyed the hypocrisy of court.” She answered her back to him, “I am quarrelsome and will go to our rooms, excuse me to your father.”
“No,” he caught her arm as she walked by, “you will put on a better face, and take your place beside me.”
Phaila’s eyes widened at his tone, his words, she looked at his hand on her arm.
“I want you here.” He softened the bass his of voice, pulled her to him, “Phaila, tetszik, be gentle.”
“Do you think he will give anytanything you will not have to defend?”
Amaras thought for a moment, “dinner?”
“Oh, Amaras,” she scolded, laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck.

At table, Phaila sat quietly and ate sparingly listened to father and son talk, studied Saeros’ under her lashes. She wanted to believe this from Saeros, this new found, paternal love, but she harboured a deep anger. Anger for all the years Amaras had sat waiting for the simplest gesture of kindnthatthat reduced him to a dog long ignored who came grateful for a scratch behind the ear. She turned her head, stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, and pushed back her chair.

“I, excuse me, Your Grace, Saeros, I am very tired kedevelt and think I will go to our rooms.”
“Of course,” he and Amaras stood.
“I will be along shortly.” Amaras kissed her cheek.
“Good-night, Phaila.”
“Good night.”

She sat on the edge of the bath, swirling the creamy scented oil in the hot water with her hand.

Amaras entered, unbuttoning his tunic neck.

“You were very quiet at dinner, Phaila.”
“I thought it best.”

He smi pul pulled the tunic over his head.

“You are something.”
“I do not know what you mean.” She answered archly.

He stepped forward, bent over her as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and stepped into the tub, dragging her into the water the both of them fully clothed.

“Amaras, husband….” She laughed, “kedevelt….”
“Hmmm?” Amaras nuzzler ner neck and worked on the buttons of her shirt.
“I have been missing you.” She drew his hair away from his neck to bite him high on the neck, “if you had taken care earlier, I may have been in a better mood.”
“I will remember this for the future.”


igen - yes
nyem - no
feleseg - wife
ferj - husband
kedevelt - beloved
hálásan köszönöm - thank you very much
Abbahagy - stop