The Phoenix and the Griffin

In the morning, Amaras lounged in the bed as Phaila examined the gowns she had brought. All somber, muted colours, grays, blacks, browns, a deep yellow and one gown of muted red.

She took up one gown of pearl gray. “For luncheon?” She held it up for him to examine.
“Yes and the deep yellow tonight,” Amaras rolled onto his stomach watching her, “I love that colour on you, that and red.”
“Then I will wear it for you, szeretett.”

“How many of your cousins are here?” She asked sitting before the dressing table sweeping her hair up to twist and pin.
“All three,” he tucked his shirt into his suede breeches.
“I do not think you ever really talked of them, is there a reason?”
“Not really, I rarely saw them, and they had little to do with me when we did meet.”

She looked at him with soft eyes.
“No,” Amaras smiled and put his hands on her shoulders ran them up the slender neck, “they only ignored me, much easier to live with.”

She took hand,and, “I love you, Amaras.”
“I love you more.” He lifted her hand; bent over her shoulder and kissed it, laid it against his cheek.

She took a deep breath and turned her head to appraise the placement of the jeweled pins. Amaras closed his tunic and watched her. She was nervous and wanted to look perfect for a court she knew would be scrutinizing them. She had never fussed so.

“You look beautiful.” He smiled and brought her wine.
She gave him a grateful smile.

~~~~~~~
I~
Isóng, Rorfiwn and Murion stood together in the Great Hall; it had been a very long time since they had laid eyes on their cousin Amaras who now usurped their rights in the line of succession. Never before had a bastard been elevated above lawfully got children, not that it was illegal, it simply was not done. Thrones had passed from uncle to nephew when there were no children to assume the role; bastards had always counted for naught.

If Beren had not gotten himself killed, these cousins would accept their roles as Barons and Count of Eryn Vorn, all properly ceded. However, with the death of Beren lofty possibilities sprung in their minds. Isóng, the eldest would step forward, be made Count of Lund Daer and prepared to take the reins of the duchy. His brothers would rise with him, but Saeros had done the unthinkable, held his hand out to his base-born son, and lifted him instead.

The two great doors to the hall swung open and Saeros entered, followed by Amaras with Phaila on his arm. Elenriel refused to answer Saeros’ soft knocks on her door, nor hear his words.

Isóng craned his long neck and looked to his cousin. Amaras was an echo of his father, tho his features were finer, no doubt from his mother’s blooTallTall, broad shouldered, formidable, his dark hair fell a sleek sheet down his tunic of murky blue.

Isóng weaved his head from side to side to see his wife. This was Amaras’ beloved…all had sighed at the risk he had taken in securing her as wife. Brave Amaras, noble Amaras…deceitful Amaras. Everyone forgave the silence on his life that was a trumpeting lie. Twenty years he had dwelt in the Havens, coming to Lund Daer when his father beckoned and somehow finding time to squeeze in days to ride to Forlindon to bed his young, his royal, his Morrigan and well-connected wife.

Isóng lifted his chin and swept his eyes over her; lips parted. His haughty posture of casualness whisked away. Oh. Illúvatar! It is the elleth met long ago in the wood between Forlindon and the Havens. La. “…. one my brothers, father call me.” The race to the crossroads, the brief conversation, and the kiss he stole. His La. PhaiLA. How had he missed that?

She had changed only a little, fined and matured. She had been the fuel for many fantasies. An idol he worshiped with his flesh. The kiss one he compared all others. Oh, if it were to happen to someone else he would laugh his head off.

Amaras turned his head and looked at her, smiled.

They walked up the carved stones to the dais; Phaila and Amaras stopped two steps from the top. Turned to face the court; Phaila felt she faced judges at her execution her hand grew cold, and Amaras tightened his grip.

Saeros looked over the court, found the three brothers and motioned them forward.

Amaras walked down the steps to put himself on equal footing with his cousins, he did not outrank them yet; to stand over them would be an insult, Phaila followed.

“My lord,” Amaras inclined his head to Isóng.
“Amaras,” Isóng gave his head a slight dip, a smile on his lips that did not quite touch his eyes.
“Phaila, may I present Isóng, Count of Eryn Vorn.”
“My lady,” Isóng said pointedly as Phaila began her half curtsey, extended her hand and he took it; warm in his own.
“My lord,” she answered and rose to look into his eyes. Stormy blue the pupils dilated slightly.
Isóng held onto her hand a moment longer. No recognition registered in her eyes.
“You do not remember me.”
“My lord?”
“You had slipped from a brother in a wood? We met in a stream and then raced to a crossroads.”
“Húndúr,” she said softly. “Valar, Húndúr!” She laughed, “You are Amaras’ cousin?”
“It appears so,” Isóng looked to Amaras who gave a tight, puzzled smile.
“My brothers, your cousins now,” Isóng turned to them, held his arm out.