The Phoenix and the Griffin

“What do you gaze on with such interest, brother?” Rorfiwn asked smiling, leaning against the wall beside his brother.
“She is lovely,” Isóng mumbled.
“I suppose,” Rorfiwn wobbled his head unsure, “your hiril at home is much more beautiful.”
“I must have her.”
Rorfiwn laughed loudly, turned to his brother and propped his outstretched arm against the wall to stare with astonishment.
“You and your endless pursuits. Do you see that tall, dark ellon beside her? He is her férj, and if I am not mistaken rather fond of her and I do not think he will share her with you, Isóng.”
“I will have her.”
“Oh, well. All right then.” Rorfiwn cocked his head at his brother, “You are serious.”
“Oh, igen, I am very serious. Do you honestly believe I will let that bastard rise above us without recompense?”
“Isóng…”
“Be content, Isóng with this BONE.” He mimicked.
“Do you know what you are saying?”

Isóng smiled and drifted away, nodding to those he passed.
~~~~~~~~~~~

In their rooms, Amaras and Phaila collapsed on the sofa before the fire.

“Oh, I am glad that that is over,” Amaras moaned and rubbed his forehead.
“My head aches too,” Phaila began working at the buttons of her sleeves, “will you get the buttons in the back for me, szeretett?”
“Of course,” he sat up. “Now tell me of your meeting with Isóng.”
“It was long ago and … nothing, I was hiding from Dagnir. Met… Húndúr, he called himself…we had a race and then he roday.”ay.” She skipped over the kiss and the thoughts she had had of him.

Amaras experienced a wave of jealousy, ran his forefinger up her spine. “Done.”
“I want a nap,” she moaned and began unpinning her hair.
“Sounds good, may I join you?”
“There is a condition.”
“So it begins.” Amaras moaned, “What is it? Your condition?”
“You must make love to me first.”
“Diplomacy at its finest.”

They lay entangled, looking at the ceiling. Phaila rose on her elbow and leaned over him taking the goblet of wine from beside their bed she sipped before handing it to Amaras and laid back down.

“When must we be down?”
“At sunset.”
“Then we have only an hour and we will have to take a bath.”
“To wash the scent of me off of you?” He asked and rolled onto her to put the goblet on the bed table.
“Oh, now you know that THAT is not true. You have only left me very sweaty, and sticky…” she tugged a lock of hair.
“I like you sweaty and sticky.”
“Then that is how I go go to dinner, and everyone I dance with will smell you on me. Know that you have done wicked things with me.”
“Mmmm,” he kissed her, and parted her thighs. “Prepare for more wickedness.”

“Leave your hair down,” Amaras said as she sat before her mirror.
“Are you sure?” She asked looking at his reflection in the glass.
“I am sure.”
“It is messy.”
Amaras arched an eyebrow suggestively.
“I must smooth it.” She laughed and reached for her bottle of orange water, “Get some of these tangles out.”

In his bath, Isóng laid back in the steaming water his eyes looking, unfocused across the room. At the news of the death of Beren, he and his brothers had collected, ordered the court into mourning and celebrated privately. Their star was on the rise. They had come to see their cousin interred and sat expectantly before a grief stricken Saeros, looking appropriately wretched. It had been bitter medicine being called to court when he expected to be told that he would be the next to take the Duchy of Lund Daer instead hearing that it would go to the Dukes’, his uncle, bastard son.

In his room, Isóng had come unnailed. He raged so loudly that his brothers dragged him into the bath.
“How could he? How could HE?” He demanded.
“He is the Duke, and has this son….” Rorfiwn drawled and laid his hand on Isóng’s chest, “Easy brother, easy….there are accidents every day, there are quarrels where one may get himself killed. There are thieves’ ambushes…”

Isóng closed his eyes and turned his mind to more pleasant thoughts.

He ran his hand over his chest, rolled his head on the tub’s edge. She is lovely, so slender, would she feel soft in his hands? That mouth, full like his; he licked his lips suddenly dry. What did that hair look like unbound and tossed on a pillow? His idol refreshed, additions made, more to imagine.

Murion poured wine into a goblet and stood staring into the fire. A sound came from the bath, a moan that echoed on the stone floor. He shook his head. Rorfiwn entered the bedchamber tugging at the sleeve of his shirt; it was riding up under that of his tunic.
“Ah, wearing the proper mourning colours I see,” he smiled at his brother in shades of brown. He had chosen a dusky red, “where is Isóng? Not still in the tub?”
A soft cry came from the bath.
“He will be out soon now.” Murion lifted the goblet.
“I hope he got her out of his blood for the night then,” Rorfiwn hissed, “he is mad, did he tell you?”
Murion nodded mutely.
“You are afraid,” Murion smiled.
“Afraid? Of what, brother, am I afraid?” Rorfiwn poured himself wine and walked by the bath door, knocked, “Isóng, hurry we will be late!”
Murion looked furtively at the door, “It has always been the three of us….none of us married…you are afraid of what a feleség will do to our little alliance.”
“You are too young to think you will be bachelor for the rest of your days….”
“Only none is good enough for us, you criticize and beat any down I have show any attention toward. A bedmate I may have, but look too hard and feel too much…”
“I believe you what you look at and feel for is rather outside the parameters of what is acceptable, but are adept in keeping it quiet, and have bedded enough adaneth to confuse the trail, but perhaps you cannot decide yourself which you prefer and keep your options open. But,” he waved his hand dismissively, “you should be stronger, as for Isóng, no one has ever gotten the better of him and dissuaded him from any target he sets his sight on, only this, Phaila.”
“Isóng has fallen in love,” Murion leaned against the mantle, “it has happened.”
“I think the word is lust. And she is married.” Rorfiwn singsonged.
“Unfortunately for Amaras and for her, but Isóng will have her, you know this.”
“Why Murion, I think you are growing soft, excuse me,” he gave a slick smile, “hard. Is it Phaila too, or is it your cousin that makes you hesitate in your purpose? Amaras is tall, and powerfully built, what would he be to bed?”

Murion’s lips parted, eyes flashed angrily, he had endured enough taunting.

The bath opened and Isóng entered wrapped in his robe and toweling his hair dry. He moved his eyes over his brothers ignored the tenseness in the air.

“It is a good thing I am wearing blue or someone would have to change,” he dropped the towel on the floor.

He stood running his fingers through the dark gloss of mane before the fireplace drying it while his brothers looked at one another over his head.

“Will you behave yourself tonight?” Rorfiwn asked.
“Of course,” Isóng tossed his head back, took the comb from the mantle and ran it through, took it in his teeth and began to work the hair at his temples into a braid.
“Saeros would be very angry if you were to try to seduce his son’s wife before the court.”
“I said that I would be…leave off!” Isóng threatened around the comb in his mouth.

Rorfiwn laughed and took the comb from his brother’s teeth and began to braid the left side of his head.

igen - yes