The Phoenix and the Griffin

Phaila and Amaras arrived in the hall for breakfast, joined his father. Saeros smiled, put his fork aside and stood to greet his son and daughter-in-law.

“Oh, my…” Saeros smiled, “how late were you two up?” He embraced Amaras and then Phaila.
“Not too long,” Amaras held Phaila’s chair out for her.
“I think I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow,” she smiled, after she had moved it from Amaras’ chest.
“And me not long after.” Amaras smiled, “it was a soft night.” The rain had lulled them into a deep sleep cocooned in the gentle sound, entangled in warm limbs. Amaras had moved against a dozing Phaila, drew her head over her shoulder for a kiss, his hand drifting down her abdomen, woke her to make love gently.
“Good, I am glad you did not lie awake thinking too much.” Saeros motioned for a servant to bring them plates. “Your cousins have not come down yet, perhaps they did.”
“Then they are confused, conflicted?” Amaras said hopefully.
“Maybe,” Saeros smiled, “maybe they plot, they are a conspiratorial lot.”
Phaila lifted her water glass, “ah, here they are.” She smiled as the bleary eyed trio entered the hall, walked unsteadily to the table to make their respects.
“Your Grace,” Isóng inclined his head representing his brothers to Saeros, Amaras and Phaila who stood respectfully.
“My Lord,” Saeros smiled amused.
“Please cousins, sit,” Isóng motioned and then touched his head, “I am unable to be truly courteous this morning, perhaps after tea I can be more amusing, Your Grace, your wine is most potent! You must give us a cask or two to take home.” He winked.
“How long did you stay, Isóng, after we had left?”
“Too long, Your Grace, too long, but the company was fair and well worth the price.” Isóng smiled and inclined his head, “Do not forget, My Lady we have a hunt, tomorrow? I would have asked you, cousin, but we understand that you are much hemmed with your father.”
“We will hunt together, cousin, and soon.” Amaras answered.
“I look forward to it,” Isóng smiled back, “Now if you will excuse me, I must eat something.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Saeros inclined his head.

Isóng bowed before them all and turned to his brothers who inclined their heads they wobbled to their chairs.

Phaila made her way to the library, forever interested in the books she might find under someone else’s roof, and found Isóng in the hall walking the opposite direction.
“How are you feeling, My Lord?” She asked slowed her quick walk; she bowed her head to him.
“Much better,” he cocked his head at her, stepped closer, “where do you go, Phaila so quickly?”
“To the library, would you come?” She turned walked backward and motioned with her shoulder the direction she was walking.
“Yes, thank you, I was feeling restless perhaps a book is the tonic.”
He offered his arm.

In the vast library, they parted. Phaila wandered slowly among the shelves, Isóng forced himself to walk away from her, pulling a book of maps from the shelves he stalked to the chairs before the massive fireplace and threw himself into one of them.

Phaila came back with three thick volumes of history of Lund Daer and collapsed on the deerskin rugs before the fire at Isóng’s feet. She sprawled on her stomach, hooked a foot behind her ankle and opened a book. He looked at her over the top of his book. His eyes moved up her booted legs, up the suede breeches that encased her thighs to her flanks. He bit his lip, ah to lie between those thighs! She wore no tunic today, only a shirt of muted red, a shawl of deep gold and rusted cherry around her shoulders, her hair loose fell over her back in those curls he wanted to tangle in his fists.

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Is this Phaila at home with his cousin? Stretched before the fire, reading a book? It must be, for it seemed a natural pose for her. She accepted him then. She trusted him, a knife of guilt twisted in his heart. Is this love? To be self-interested and generous simultaneously? How do those two dispositions co-exist in the same breath? To take and to leave her alone lay in his hand and for the moment he contented himself with looking at her over the pages of the book he turned only because he must do something with his numb hands.

“What do you think of this, Isóng?” She asked with informality, she was after all his rank, forgot herself. “My lord. I am sorry.” She rolled on to her side and looked at him over her shoulder.
He waved the familiarity away, lay the book against his chest. “What cousin?”
“You are mentioned in this book,” she touched the page, “how strange to read it and meet the adan.”
“Am I?” He smiled, he did not know that and put the book he was pretending to read aside and moved to stretch out beside her on the floor.
“Yes, here,” she turned her face to the page and pointed to the paragraph with her nail.
“Let me see,” he smiled and leaned his shoulder against hers to move the book before him. “Ah, where? I have lost the mark.”
“Itt,” she leaned her face over his shoulder; Isóng closed his eyes inhaling deeply. She wore a scent sweep, and sharp as a knife; it made his nose constrict and his mouth water.

Isóng lowered his face; his dark hair falling forward, he tucked the loose lock behind his ear and gave her his profile. He stifled a groan, focused his eyes, cleared his throat and read of his lineage and she was right, how odd it was to be mentioned in a book.
“They will have to amend it when you marry and have children,” she nodded over his shoulder, her chin touching him for a moment. “It will have to say, ‘Isóng married on this date, and her name; then, and brought forth, your children’s names.”
“And you cousin they write even now,” he rolled onto his side. “Phaila, Countess Ar-Feiniel married Amaras, Count Tur-anion and bore, then the names of your children to come.”
“If we are fortunate.” She drew the book back before her.
“What do you mean?”

Phaila looked at him surprised. She had merely spoken idly. “These are uncertain times, and my husband wants us to wait a little.”
“Not so uncertain for those in love, but he is wise, you are young, very young to be brought to childbed. If you were my wife, I would do the same, tho it would be against my desire, only to spare you and give you time to strengthen.” He looknto nto those eyes and found himself leaning toward her, “It would be a hard thing.” He whispered his eyes locked on hers and she leaned toward him.

Illúvatar but he has beautiful eyes, and that mouth.

Csók, he thought, tetszik. He stretched his neck, inched toward her, could feel her breath on his face. Isóng took in her eyes, dilated with lust; with hunger suddenly manifested. She drew back abruptly and sat up.
He sat up as well, “I do not know what came over me. I did not mean…Phaila.”
“No, Isóng, no need…” she stood and walked quickly from the room.
“Will you go in the morning still or should we saddle one less horse?” He called.
“I will go.”

~~~~~~~~~
In her room, Phaila shivered before the fire, what had happened? She swallowed, her mouth dry, walked to the sideboard and poured out wine, lifted the cup with a hand that trembled. Does he posses a charm, did he weave it over her drawing her to him? She loved Amaras with all of her heart, but Isóng, God, Isóng! Is this a product of her inexperience? A sexual curiosity? An incomprehensible wondering what that lush mouth tasted and felt like? Or had there been more to the stirring in her heart those years ago than an innocent elleth's first kiss?

For Amaras’ sake, she tucked this into the black corner of her heart where no eye could pierce, and tomorrow she would ride out and hunt with Isóng and his brothers; pretend nothing had occurred, as it was true. Give me strength, Illúvatar! Give me strength to turn him aside if he leans again.

Isóng sat on the deerskin and watched her disappear. He had almost had her. He threw himself down and stared at the raftered ceiling. Their lips had almost touched; his heart raced in his chest a horse beaten into a frightful gallop threatening to drop beneath him. Oh, if only she had, if only she had given him that one little thing…what? Been contented? Not likely, he would have dragged her to some more secluded part of the library take her on the floor, against the shelves, on a desktop, to mark her, claim her with his seed.

He laid his forearm over his eyes. Where had this possessive urge come from? Isóng lay and examined his life with sickening detail.