The Phoenix and the Griffin

Three days passed and the house of Ar-Feiniel entered the great gate. Curanor, and Nurwen his Morrigan Duchess, trailed by their youngest child; a daughter following her mother in the Morrigan ways, the Lady Ar-Feiniel, Phaila. Behind her rode her two brothers, the Count Padathir and Lord Dagnir.

The three Ar-Feiniel offspring jumped to the ground, immediately converged to whisper. Phaila held her gloved hand up to shade her eyes as she looked at the assembled Tur-anion while her two brothers spoke behind her. All three of the Ar-Feiniel siblings were identically coloured; all were their father. None had inherited their mother’s Silvan colouring, Círdan noted; all were Dore Rohmë to the bones.

She had been here when she was younger; served the house as all of the young nobles had, her brothers had been sent to Elrond. He smiled. She had been so high-spirited, and loved pranks for the look on the recipients face.

When the court was full of young elflings sent to serve and learn; the pranks were rampant, and every one grew amusedly edgy n kno knowing their turn as victim. The pranks ranged from the very simple, the top loosened on the saltshaker, to the elaborate, one particularly disliked barons’ bed was dismantled, reassembled without nails and promptly collapsed when he lay in it.

Phaila was more overt in her pranks, actually delivering a message on horse back to him as he sat in the great hall. Her greatest was played on Lord Elrond’s emissary Erestor, by gaining access to his rooms and sewing the sleeves of each of his robes closed. She had escorted him to table, for they all must learn to serve, when he arrived late to dinner, having to sit with a knife and undo her needlework, and made some comment to him on the fine stitching of his robe. Erestor had slid to a shocked stop, while she blinked innocently at him. He threw back his head and laughed while she looked away and worked to keep her face straight.

However, her boldest was during a dinner with King Thranduil when she had flown her great owl-hawk in the hall on a dare and then stood forth, and climbed on top of a table, swung the lure to call it back amid the ducking courtiers. Even then revealed a strangeness of self and spirit; marred and marked as a Dore Rohmë and set apart by her high rank, her beauty, her love of sharp swords, fast horses, and precisely shot arrows; eschewed the embroidery and music other elleths preferred.

Círdan had hid his smile. He loved having the young ones about him, there were just too few these years. He had dwelt forever and ever, and at times, more times than he cared to admit to; forgot what it was to be so young, and new and free of memory that kept one lying awake night after night. She was among the ones who made him laugh aloud and forget for a time.

She was one of the few, ellon or elleth, who attended his court, paid attention to the proceedings, and actually took notes, coming to him in the evening to ask him questions, flattering him immensely. Oh, it would be good to be among these young ones again!

She turned to her brothers and said something that made the both of them laugh. She was another who spoke to servants as she did now, handing off the reins of the tall, black maned mare. She laid her hand on the stable elf’s arm, looking into his eyes before he bowed deeply to her, blushing to his roots. She understood her power and what it took to keep it; never alienate anyone.

She smiled at Círdan seeing he watched and strode out, tossed her blue cloak over her shoulders, to follow her parents, her brothers bumped into one another playfully, preened before the populace. Dagnir and Padathir were beautiful young elves with their high cheekbones, slender noses and full mouths. Perhaps one of them would find a wife among their enemy; Dagnir had reached his majority and could wed at any time, Padathir was only two years from his own coming of age, and eligible for engagement. Phaila was only thirty, much to young to betroth.

Círdan looked around at the members of his court, the Tur-anion who had gathered to watch the second of age-old rivals ride through the palace gates. There was Amaras; lips parted stood behind his father, stepmother and brothers. Círdan looked, but could not make out who drew his breath from him. There were many beautiful and unmarried elleths among the Ar-Feiniel, who could she be? His heart skipped, then dropped. Too bad it is the bastard beguiled.

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“What are you doing Lady?” Círdan asked standing in the door of his library.

Phaila curled over the desk, a book and sheet of paper before her, lifted her head and then stood quickly to make reverence.

”No, no,” he waved her down and closed the door behind him.

“I am working on my own heraldry, Your Highness,” she answered and took her seat, “A gift from my mother and father.”
“Ah, is your begetting day soon?”
“Firith, Hithui,” she took up her quill.

Firith; autumn, the Rohmë elves did not hold to spring begettings.

Círdan leaned forward, smiling, “What have yecidecided on?”
Phaila took up the book and her paper and walked around the desk, where she leaned her knee on the chair beside him.

She plopped the book down, leaned over his shoulder, her perfume coming to him, closing his eyes, sweet and sharp. Oh, she would be maddening to pursue with her complete lack of artifice, and virginal innocence.

“I was thinking this,” she pulled her paper before his eyes. A square, yes, of course, the word scarlet written in the background and a griffin well drawn, “this is the sign I was given, as Morrigan novice and it is the talisman I will carry forth, the Griffin.” She pointed her nail on the paper, a griffin sitting, wings flared, staring straight at the observer, a crown on its’ head. The griffon’s right talon rested on a shield, its’ left a sword.

“My father,” she pointed to the right hand corner, a set of spread wings crossed with two swords, “my mother,” a sword upright, entwined with roses.
“And what of your husband? I do not see how he figures in this equation.” Círdan motioned over the paper.
Phaila looked at the paper, and laughed, turned her pale green and gold eyes to his, “I will have to quarter it when the time comes.”

She had accepted her fate then on that score. Her parents would arrange her marriage, and he thought, ‘too bad for her and for him whoever he is.’ She would be wasted to advance some high ranking courtier when she would better serve someone more appreciative of her talents, for while still a very young she shone forth like mithril in the dark waiting for someone with patience and endurance to work her free then channel her forming her into something brilliant.

“What is it Your Highness?” She asked as he mused.
“I was thinking of going sailing, would you join me?”

Círdan took her out the next morning with her parents blessing and her nurse, Maltafuinien as escort. It was a stormy day, the wind filled the sail and Círdan began a tack the turned the boat sharply on its’ starboard side. Phaila stuck her hand in the water as the boat rushed through the dark green water, capped with white, smiled at the pressure that built in the palm of her hand and ran through her fingers.

The boom swung and the boat righted and then leaned ort.ort. Smiling Phaila looked back at Círdan at the tiller, his waist length hair blew behind him, sea spray beaded on his neatly trimmed beard.

Maltafuinien moaned softly and hung over the side of the boat.

“Poor Malta,” Phaila dipped her hands into the sea and wiped them over her nurse’s gray face, “I am afraid there is not a drop of sea elf in her.”

Círdan laughed, turned the small sailboat and took them back toward shore.

At the pier, Círdan had stood on the planking and offered his hand to Phaila after she had helped her nurse from the boat. She reached up her hand, looking into his face with eyes the colour of the pale, stormy sea, her hair plastered to her head with the rain and surf, she smiled trustingly and his heart listed. He must do what he could for her, set someone before her that would suit her and not her parents.

“Dance with me daughter,” Curanor took Phaila’s hand and led her to the dance floor where he gathered her in his left arm, took her hand in his.

He turned her gracefully, watched her arch her long neck into the direction they spun. He loved when she wore her hair up, piled loosely and secured with jeweled pins. From whom did she inherit these curls? Her mother had dressed her hair in this manner when Phaila was very young, and she had thought herself grown up. She almost was.
“I do not know what I will do when you marry,” he kissed her forehead.
“Oh, Atya.” She kissed his cheek, “I am years from being married, and may never marry at all.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I do not know,” she looked away, “I am…” She cocked her head. Strange.
“Beautiful, and brilliant, and have a promising future, tho I am thinking this Morrigan path…”
“Atya, you promised…”

Curanor kissed her temple. “Igen I did,” he turned them, “There is Berindon watching you. I think he will love you if you let him, but only after you are married!” He laughed and held her tightly; a father and his half grown daughter, smelling of apricot. The realisation that the days for them were growing shorter pricked his hazel eyes until they took in the Tur-anion who watched.

Curanor’s gentle countenance turned steely. Phaila turned slightly in his arm to follow his gaze. She gave the Tur-anion’s a smile, looked to her father and puffed a breath in his face to get his attention.

“Atya, do not let them trouble you so,” she smiled and kissed him.

She did not feel the hate for them, as she understood she was required to. So long ago, the incident had spurred them into this feud; too many had died over a marriage when once they had married among one another quite freely. Their singularity, nature and the tainted history was reason enough for their elf-kin to stand far away, and view them with skepticism. Their attraction was natural. There were rare examples of those who cared not regarding the reason of the exile, which held generations after blamed. Berindon and her mother were examples that came immediately to mind. However, it seemed to her that an elf would bind with a member of the race of men faster than with a Rohmë. Ah well, what can one do but steer free of the clash and try to influence others to do the same. One day the killings would stop.

Such are the naïve thoughts and beliefs of the young.

They stared at one another across the dance floor; a look of surprise mirrored in the other. Both flicked their eyes away, were they noticed? They looked again careful to not be observed by either set of hyper-vigilant parents.

Círdan sat on the dais observing the two families pointedly ignoring the other and wondering what in the name of the Valar it was going to take to bring this all to an end before they completely destroyed each another.

It had crossed his mind to have the families dance with a partner from the opposed house, but knew as he did the sun would rise tomorrowl wal was needed then would be one well aimed insult and the hall would be knee deep in blood. If only he could safely steer the younger ones together, it lay in their hands to turn this crimson tide.

Raising his goblet to his lips, Círdan spied out the tall, bas bastard of Saeros. Ah, here he showed forth as an impressive young ellon, broad chested in his deep blue tunic, his dark hair sleek down his back, and his sapphire eyes fixated on. …Círdan followed the line, and there she was staring boldly back, oh, he could not have picked a higher or more inappropriate target, Phaila.

A chill ran its’ hand up Círdan’s back as he watched the incredible happen. Amaras flicked his eyes to the far end of the floor then back to Phaila, gave a small nod. Phaila dipped her chin; raised it.

Making his way slowly, unhurriedly around the hall Amaras walked, while Phaila stepped back and turned, screened by her kinsmen slipped toward him, met him at the edge of the floor where couples danced.

Círdan leaned back in his chair, his heart thumping madly in his chest. Oh now, that was a gutsy.

Amaras stepped her onto the dance floor; here they would be able to speak without intrusion under Círdan’s watchful eye. Trembling Amaras lay his hand against the small of her back, took her hand in his and swept her away.

“Ar-Feiniel,” he said her name.
“Tur-anion,” she answered shaking in his firm grip.

”I cannot speak,” Amaras began breathlessly.
“Nor I,” Phaila panted back, she turned her head to look casually away.

That is it, Círdan nodded; be aloof to the eyes that watch, Amaras it is too clear on your face.

It was evident in his entire posture. He held her tightly to him, his chest puffed; he arched his neck as he devoured her with his gaze.

“My hands are ice.” He said apologetically.
“I cannot feel mine, hold it tighter.”

They moved in a cocoon of music filled silence.

“You are a Morrigan,” he spoke after a long silence and raised their joined hands to touch his forefinger to the mark high on her neck, refreshing the shiver in them both. He almost staggered with the sudden weakness that struck his knees.
“A novice yet.”
“But you are a Morrigan,” he looked away as he turned her gracefully, his hair fanned; a long dark flag that fell over his breast.
“Yes,” she answered.
“I suppose that that is something I will have to learn to live with,” he said deeply, turning his eyes down to look at her profile.
“Yes, my lord, it is, but I promise I will make it up to you.”

Amaras turned her again, “I will hold you to that promise,” he whispered. “Phaila.” He drew her name out against her cheek.
“Ar-Feiniele moe moaned, “The Valar play with us, Phaila, wife of my soul.” He tucked her right hand grasped in his left against him to feel the thundering of his heart as it opened to her, and knowledge moved from him to her.
She bowed her head as his heart bared itself to her. Love flowed as jagged and dangerous as a lightening bolt, drifted as soft as swan down.

He turned her as he thought, quaked with emotions. “Can you get away?”
“Yes, I will send you a note through my nurse, Maltafuinien.”
“Maltafuinien,” he nodded, repeated the name.
“Oh, szeretett,” he breathed in the scent of her apricot and sweet almond. He was filled with sudden and absolute desperation, “I must turn you loose wife, your family watches with too keen eyes, but I will wait for your message, I will wait for you.” He turned his head and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Say my name.” He swallowed; commanded.
“Amaras,” she obeyed and his fingers dug into her back with abrupt desire. He wanted to hear her say his name when he reared over her. That would have to wait.
He moved her around the floor and brought her to her parents who stood indeed watching keenly.

“Thank you, Lady,” he inclined his head deeply, properly to Phaila, backed away a few steps before he straightened, and did not look at her again as he walked away, exhaled an excited, trembling breath.

“Who was that?” Her father asked, knew the answer.
Phaila stood, drew a long breath. “Amaras?” She answered as if unsure. “The music is loud, Atya. I believe that is what he said his name was.” She snapped open her fan.

“Will you dance with me, Berindon?” She asked the black haired elf who stood beside her, the son of one of her father’s house barons, coyly over the top of the fan.

Berindon smiled, “Of course, My Lady.”

Amaras took up a goblet and strolled leisurely back to the side of the hall where his kin stood, smiling innocently at the eyes that turned his way.

There was a rustling among the ranks of the Ar-Feiniel, and Amaras raised his head to see his Phaila step onto the floor with a tall, dark elf. Her entire family smiled, approved of this match, and many heads bent together, conversations buzzed behind upheld fans. Possessiveness rippled through Amaras.

The young elf wrapped his arm around a wife hidden and not yet taken, and smiled into her face. There was only one thing to do to complete the circle, and it grew in a tight coil in Amaras abdomen.

Círdan laughed loudly, surprised his courtiers with the mystery of his mirth. She was playing their game and playing it too well. In lieu of deflecting her family, she had roused the Tur-anion. Not her fault, she is clumsy yet and they would find some insult regardless. He rose, he must do something to intercede, cool the touchy temper of the Tur-anion.

He walked onto the dance floor, among the couples and intercepted the Lady and her companion.
“May I?” Círdan asked holding his hand out.

“Your Highness,” Berindon stepped from Phaila, bowed deeply and watched as Círdan scooped her into his chest and danced her away.

“Your husband is very bold,” Círdan said, felt her stiffen, then relax, “Yes, I saw. I am not sure how it was perceived by anyone else, but I think it is no longer considered after you drew another’s attentions.”
“I will not pretend that I do not grasp that a marriage between my family and the Tur-anion’s would please all politically, but Your Highness….”
“Easy,” he reassured her, “He is your husband. Yes, yes, it would please me, and many others, but do not think so coldly of me.” Círdan smiled, “I will do as much for you both as I can, but you must listen and keep your wits about you,” he smiled dissembling and she smiled back, turned her head, “He is a bastard, your family will refuse him. Had it been different, I could do more. If you can hold out until your majority, you may bind with him then, before me and with my blessing and protection, but I fear that your family will try to marry you off before then. They cannot force you, it must be of your own free will, but they can make it very hard on you.”

Phaila smiled, and to any who watched she and the Shipwright were enjoying an amusing conversation.

“They have someone earmarked for me,” she nodded still smiling and bit the inside of her cheek to keep her lip from trembling, “I cannot,” she laughed, “I will not.”

“Go easy, do not let your emotions get the better of you,” Círdan stroked her back with his strong fingers, “Let me think on what to do for you both.” It was easy to forget he spoke with a child until she trembled, bit her lip. She had a complete grasp of her situation, but lacked the practical understanding on how to cope, and deal with quiet patience. Sheltered on one hand, exposed to the world on the other; she was a breathing contradiction.