The Phoenix and the Griffin

Amaras paced his small room for three days. Afraid to leave, afraid he would miss her nurse, he took his meals here, hung out of his window and walked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; at last splintering a small stool as he beat his frustration and love against the stones.

He lay on his narrow bed, a cup of wine curled in his hand and propped on his chest as he lay looking out of the window morosely. Bastard. Bastard. Tur-anion bastard. He had never felt the bastard as keenly as he had since his eyes had lain on her.

There came a soft scratching at his door and he leapt from the bed, setting the cup aside.

A tall cloaked and hooded figure stood before him, he drew the dagger from the back of his belt, kept his hand behind him.

“My lord, you were expecting me.” The maid said from the depths of the darkness the hood provided. “ I am Maltafuinien,” she said softly and held a square of paper out, sealed in red wax, a symbol clearly pressed. A griffin. Phaila trusted him to put it in writing and to use her seal.

Maltafuinien turned and swept swiftly down the dimly lit hall.

Amaras closed the door, bolted it and held the paper to his nose, breathed deeply. Yes, it was from her, it smelled of her perfume. He held it against his breast in replication of an embrace, and turned in a tight, joyful half-circle his hair fanning feeling foolish but giddy with his joy.

He took a deep breath and sitting on the edge of his bed he held the square in his trembling hands, oh, please let it be, let it be….tonight and broke the seal.

Amaras, dearest, sweetest husband….I will be in the Small Wood, east of the walls, in the meadow that opens on the sea. I wait husband, I wait for you to come and claim what is yours….
P~

He held the note over the flame of the candle, Valar he wanted to keep it, but it was not safe. He memorized her handwriting, her words oh she was bold, and her scent. Scattering the ashes out of his small window, he pulled on his dark cloak and left quickly.

For a moment, he thought himself tricked as he stared at the back of the elf, hair gathered in one long braid staring out at the ocean, but mixed in the scent of sea was the smell of her perfume. Do not be fooled, can still be a trap, he cautioned himself.

The figure turned, it was she.

Dressed in tunic, shirt, leggings and boots … he had only seen her in gowns, in the long riding cloak, and Valar she was almost too much to look upon! Long lean legs flowed up to lean hip rounded slightly…Valar! She was not wearing a cloak, and the tunic fell to the beginning of that delicious curve; it’s colour dark gray. She had dressed to blend with the night.

He had been aching for her since seeing her ride into the bailey; the desire had mushroomed abruptly, painfully with his love. His young wakened heart had been dreaming on this for days and nights.

He pulled off his cloak, it slipped from his fingers and puddled on the ground; stood, chest moving like a bellows with his fast breath, “Are you a virgin?” He asked across the space between them.

Phaila narrowed her eyes.

“I ask so I know how to handle you,” he said and walked slowly toward her, “I care not because your lovers end with me.”

Phaila smiled tossed her head, a refusal.

“So be it,” Amaras caught her face in his hands and kissed her. His tongue flicked over her lips begged for entry, and she offered her mouth to him. He moaned, liquefied and turned to stone as her hands came around his waist. Amaras bore down on her, his hand in the small of her back and took her to the grass.

They touched through their clothes, struggled; unsatisfied, impatient fingers lifted tunic hems, snuck through the gaps between buttons, sought flesh as kisses became more ardent and teeth clashed, cutting lip. She moaned, shivered with heating pleasure as fingertips tripped without tickling over ribs, followed the curve of her waist until the back of his hand brushed the underside of her breast he moaned with his satisfying discovery. Amaras raised his head.

“Did you bring a cloak?” he panted.
“What?” she asked dazed.
“Did you bring a cloak?” he hissed.
“Yes …” she turned her head to show where she had dropped it.

He grasped the neck of her tunic and ripped it down and open.

Phaila quivered as he poised on hands and knees to look down into wide eyes the moonlight reflected in their depths.

His mouth captured hers again and he moved his hands over her hungrily devouring her with his fingertips, with his palms, with his lips and tongue. He closed his eyes as he undulated his body feeling the bones in her hips digging into his, the upward buttress of ribs. He prized her legs with his knee and between her thighs pressed hard against her. She moaned into his mouth, broke the kiss her head rolling away in a sigh; his arms shook.

He pulled at the clothing between them, ripping his own; baring chest to breasts, freed his arousal and tore her breeches from waist to crotch, amid her soft whimper. He sighed, groaned at the touch of her bare skin. He propped himself over her to take in the view of her breasts. Round, they would be full, the nipples pink. He lifted his right hand and covered the mound entirely. He dipped his mouth and his tongue flicked over one nipple his lips closed on it, she arched her back, caught his hair in her hands, hissed. He trailed his mouth over her ribs, down to the hard muscled plain of a stomach. He took those sharp hipbones in his hands and buried his face over her womb; this is where his children would lie in her, Phaila’s fingers tangled in his hair.

He reared suddenly over her, touched himself to the center of her, rubbed against her; she was wet, or perhaps it was only that he dripped with excitement. He took her lips again as he flexed his hips forward. She flinched, stiffened and tried to break the kiss. He caught her hair, held her still and filled her mouth with his tongue, moaned pleadingly, growled lustfully. The tenseness retreated she grew malleable again. He surged forward with three smooth, deep thrusts through the narrowing canal, pushed through a slight resistance then buried his length into her, his stomach hard against hers. He raised his head and made a soft sound intense pleasure to be sheathed so. Phaila’s head snapped to the left as she drew a searing breath and he froze. Virgin.

“Why did you not say?” He asked turned her face back to look aghast into her eyes, “I would not have …” a tear trickled from the corner.
She only gave him a tremulous smile, shy and trusting.

Amaras smiled, yes. She wanted him to take her; that toss of head had been plain enough; she was young, innocent of sex and did not know how to give. Yes, he had to take her to save her pride in her fumbling, but he too was young and misread it. He had hoped she was untouched. She proved his hope true.

He moved with more care, there would be no climax for her, but the experience passed his blunder must be as free of more mistakes as possible. His mouth sought hers, and he murmured, “Oh my sweet, wife. What am I to do with you?” He stroked her forehead, ran his hand down into her hair.
“Do what you will with me, ferj.”

She shifted under him. He pinned her to the ground, and filled her painfully. His weight and arms enveloped, and immobilized. He covered her from hip to shoulder and as she moved with difficulty, intuitively; began to relish the weight, the feel of his hard stomach against hers, his chest that flattened out her breasthe she smooth golden skin that glided against her own. His hips moved back and forth, that hard part of him pulled almost completely from her only to plunge back. His right hand held her left beside her head tangled in their hair, while his left hand cradled under and over her shoulder holding her steady beneath him, and she was sure that if he did not do this they would scoot the entire length of the finger of grass and end up in the water.

It was impossible to pinpoint the physical sensations that flowered, varied, they offered a riotous banquet that overwhelmed him. The feel of the skin over her stomach, the hills of her breasts, hipbones dug sharply into his adding a distant pain to the pleasure. The skin of her internal, hot, wet, and like no fabric he had ever touched with his fingers. The pressure for release built impossibly greater! Her hand on the small of his back, slipped beneais bis breeches; fingers dug into his hip. He bent his knees spread his legs to gain purchase on the grass, holding her firmly into his rough plunging. Nothing felt as this. Nothing. His teeth chattered, he quaked in effort to hold a little longer onto these moments of ecstasy, and profound awe.

“I am close, feleseg,” he whispered lifting his mouth from hers.
She did not understand what he meant, but dark knowledge moved in her and it knew perfectly.
“I call on Eru to witness our binding, PhailHe bHe brushed his hair from her face, his brow knit with his impending orgasm.
“Eru?” Phaila asked, turned her face to the stars. “Do you hear?”

“Valar! Phaila!” He cried out his right hand left hers, grasped her under her hip, tilted her and sank, impossibly deeper. His breath was ragged, shuddered with each inhalation and exhalation as he plunged hard. She felt several strong pulses from him then a great wetness. He growled out again a sound that was full of something akin to pain as he thrust brutally while she clung to him unsettled, her own breathing coming shallowly.

Amaras raised his head, his face sweaty, his long dark hair clinging to his cheek, “Am I hurting you?” He asked.

Phaila shook her head and ran her hands over his face, the dark damp hair falling around hers.

He kissed her deeply, his hands coming up to caress her cheeks, her jaw, trace her long neck. He cupped the sweet breast in his hand, round and full, the nipple hard.

“You are mine, now,” he sighed, and laid his right hand on her forehead, “and we will have a powerful and great house one day. I promise you,” he wove his dream in the air and kissed her mouth, moved in her again, “How many children, szeretett, how many children will you give me?”
She drew her legs up around his hips made him moan and lower his head involuntarily with pleasure.
“As many as you desire,” she answered.
“Oh, do not say that,” he laughed lustily, “you may not like being pregnant all of the time, I myself will not mind.”

He kissed her.

Lying beside her on his side, his head propped in his hand he looked at her.

Valar she was beautiful. She laid on her back both knees up and pressed together against the soreness, her ripped shirt bared her breasts to the stars, the tree above. Her left forearm across her forehead, her right hand lay on the flat of her stomach. She smiled at him with that closed mouth way she had.

“I have loved you all my life and did not know it until I saw you ride through the arch behind your father,” he said and his right hand reached out and took a long lock of her honey hair that lay between them and wrapped it around his finger. These curls begged to be handled.
“I have been waiting for you, Amaras. I had hoped you would find me before it was too late.” She drew her own fingers through his silky hair.
“I wonder how many marry who are not soul mates.”
“My parents,” she answered rocked her knees back and forth.
“My parents,” Amaras said with scorn, “My father. Why did he produce me, Phaila, when it brought shame to my mother? Why does he bring me to him? Because he is bored or wants to torment my half-brothers?”
“He wanted you Amaras, he must have loved your mother.”
“She loved him and loves him still, but when he comes to her house he treats her as if she were nothing more than a cousin who has embarrassed him.”
“He had a time of weakness, Amaras. It sounds he is embarrassed; it is his shame. Your mother and you remind him on a time he lost his head and his heart and wished for you. It may be he is torn; I have seen his other sons, they are nothing like you. You are the best of him, and how it must drive him mad that that is so.” She drew her finger down his nose. “Perhaps he cannot stay from you because of it, perhaps he does bring you to his court to threaten his other sons, to compare you to them and beat himself for not doing what he should have.” She offered; touched his lips over the hurt that showed on his face, and he smiled, kissed the understanding finger, leaned over her to kiss her mouth.
“Is this what you think?”
“They are possibilities, férj, I do not know you father, yet.” She ran her thumb over his bottom lip, “Here is more to further tangle matters.arasaras, my parents have considered giving me to the son of a house baron, Berindon,” she said and caught his braid in her hand thinking his reaction would be to rear back, but he did not. He narrowed his blue eyes.
“Ah. Well. That is most unfortunate for Berindon. You are mine.” He answered his tone deadly. His hands tightened on her as if someone attempted to pull her away. She had been trying to work around to telling him this, and had decided to be blunt in the place of subtlety “As “As you are mine,” She pulled the braid, pulling him down to kiss. “Nothing changes this, I thought it better to hear from me.”

Amaras gave a nod, she was right; it is better to hear this from her than someone who wanted to hurt him. There seemed to be a crowd waiting to take a turn to do just that.

“I would ask for you tonight.” He said against her lips. “If I were not a bastard, Phaila, drágán szeretett, they would have to take me. With so many pushing for peactweetween our houses.” Ashamed, he lowered his head to her shoulder all anger removed, he felt only emotionally exhausted.

“Do not bow your head before me in shame,” she lifted his head by the chin. “Is a word the meaning I do not observe in you. I will not hear it again come from your lips.” Her eyes blazed. “As wife bound I share all titles with you, all honours and disgraces, but this I nor you will bear further. Now, banish it from your vocabulary, Amaras.”
“Yes,” he answered her fierce eyes. She was daunting where she had been soft and submissive moments before, “We are bound for life through death to life again, griffin. Mindig ugyanaz marad. I will have my children on you.”

He lay looking into those heated eyes that gentled again and was startled to realise there was a temperament yet unseen behind that amused half-smile that graced her lips. Good. Would make their life … interesting.

He fell on her again, shifted his hips and nudged those knees apart.


He let her go before dawn, having spent himself entirely, he stretched out beside her. He had strained muscles throughout various points of his body, but it was a delicious ache and watched as she sat up winced.

She felt shy again now that her body was hers alone. Her eyes flicked to him, and Amaras ran his hand through his hair, as if combing out the knots, busy and not watching her.

She touched herself, sore and pulled back sticky fingers, the fluid both clear and clotted white; tinted with blood. Amaras watched her through his lashes as she looked at her fingertips, realisations settled on her. This was his seed, the essence of life. The mystery of mysteries began with this.

Amaras sat up and drew off his shirt and handed it to her and stood, turned away and worked to close his own ripped leggings.

“Amaras,” she asked quietly, “we did not make a child did we?”
“No, wife, we did not, nor will we until we are acknowledged as married and you are safe…” he answered rebuked his heart for he would not have minded getting his first child on her this sweet night.
“But we are bound.”
“I…” he could not finish the sentence, for saying it could make it happen, and wondered to if wanting it in his heart would be enough.

He kept his back to her, shamed by the tears that pricked his eyes at her innocence and search for knowledge through him. She, who understood slippery minds, had only recently begun to wake to the needs of her body and did not understand. “They will say I despoiled you, raped you from the state of your clothing, abort our babe though you could not conceive from a rape; it would be enough to say it and there would be nothing either of us could do. And Phaila, if that were to happen to you….I would start my own blood feud.”

She shivered. It was a hard truth, and Phaila sat face turned in sadness, his shirt in her hand. He was right. She pressed the soft linen between her thighs.

Phaila stood, staggered on weak legs; ah, she ached all over and pulled at her ripped clothing. She felt vulnerable and shy and wanted, oh, she wanted only to curl in bed to hold him, make love again and again until they could move no more and not dwell on the complications of their marriage; nor its’ ramifications.

Amaras watched her wobble. He wanted to lie beside her to comfort her through this transition from maid to wife; silently cradle her in his arms, let her sleep. Provide an escape from such a reality as this: that lovers so well matched, husband and wife deemed proper by the Valar should make their nuptial bed on grass, and part like thieves in the dark because of their opposed families.

Amaras smiled as she frowned and tugged at her leggings. They were hopelessly torn.

“Here,” he knelt before her and drug his knife from his boot top and cut small slits to run the laces through. He kissed the flat stomach and bit his lower lip. “That will be enough to get you through the door if you keep your cloak pulled about you.” He grasped her hips in his hands and breathed in the scent of them deeply, “I love you.” He murmured against her and her hands came to rest on his head, “I love you, Phaila, I love you.”
“I love you, Amaras,” she answered.
“Ah, but I love you more.” He smiled up at her, stood to kiss her.

She dipped her hands in the seawater, smoothed her hair, and braided it back again as Amaras watched her beaming forth a smile of complete ecstasy and adoration. My wife, my wife; his heart sang.

Amaras held his shirt and looked at her blood mixed with his seed, tucked it into his belt.

He took her into his arms and held her tightly against his chest, and they bent their heads together. He lifted his face to the stars and prayed.
Yes, Eru, did you bear witness? I will hold you to it.


Phaila crept into her room and found Maltafuinien sitting on her bed.
“Oh, my lady where have you been?!” she askarsharshly and rose. She had been almost frantic with worry, expecting her charge to return after a few hours. The urge to call the lady’s parents had grown, but so had her fear of what they would do if they found out her role in this assignation kept her frozen.
“I need a bath, Malta,” she answered and drew off her cloak.
“Dear Valar, what happened?” Maltafuinien covered her mouth at the sight of Phaila’s clothes, “What did he do to you? Were you raped?”
“No,” Phaila laughed and peeled off her torn shirt, “I was bound.”
“NO!” Maltafuinien gasped.
“Sssh!” she hushed her, “yes, I bound myself to Amaras, and he to me this night.”
“You cannot, it will not be recognized, you are not peasants free to wed whomever you wish, and without consent,” the nurse took the shirt and watched as Phaila slid the leggings down bruised thighs, “Valar, my lady, but he treated you roughly.” She hissed disapproval.
Phaila pulled on her robe, smiled at Amaras’ ‘treatment’. She had not minded it after the initial pain.
“It is nothing, Malta.”
“I will never understand you.”
“You understand enough to get rid of those clothes and get a bath for me,” Phaila laughed and took her nurse in her hands, kissed her on the cheek.

She sat painfully in the hot water Maltafuinien bringing in her towels.
“Whose man are you?” Phaila asked and lay back in the tub.
“I am your man, always,” Maltafuinien answered surprised by this question, but understood. Phaila was afraid of betrayal. A meeting was one thing, but this, another.

For the only time in her life, and she had known her mistress since the day in Firith when she was born, did she fear her. She had moved toward the life of Morrigan as her mother, and taken on a deadly aspect that she had never felt before, and now wondered if Phaila would kill her. She banished the thought. She was faithful to Phaila; would remain so.

“I want you there, Malta, when I have my children by Amaras.”
“You are too young to think of such things,” her nurse sat on the low stool beside her.

Phaila’s look drew far away, “Too soon, perhaps” she asked, “but Malta, I will have Amaras for husband and I do not care what I have to do.”
There! That tone of voice was not a childish outburst but one that belied someone beyond her years. She understood completely what she was doing; her training as a Morrigan channeled this Rohmë ferocity of will with discipline and perseverance.
“I have heard that he is honorable,” she offered her lady, “That he has no lover, but that was put down to his being a b…”
“Say it Malta,” Phaila rolled her head on the tub and waited.
“It was put down to his being a bastard, that no decent family would receive him.”

“Fools, but is fated. Do they not see him?” Phaila asked softly, “Have you seen anyone more …” she shook her head silenced with awe. Phaila being his soul mate saw through to the very being of him. Of course, they had not. Only one would and she was a child who lay in the bath as she worked to understand what the Valar had handed her so early in her life.

“And becoming a Morrigan? Is that done now?”
“Oh no, I will be a Morrigan, I have pledged myself.”
“And what does your lord husband say to this?”
“That he will have to learn to live with it.”

Oh, my lady…is it true? For if it is, he is worth you!

“Shall I wash your hair?”
“Will you, Malta?” Phaila asked her voice small.

“Phaila?” Her mother’s voice called and she sank down in the tub, pressed her lean, bruised thighs together as the door opened, “Oh good you are up, we are asked to breakfast with Círdan.”
“Yes, Anya, I will hurry then.”

Nurwen smiled at her daughter, at the large eyes that peered over the edge of the ther her pride and joy, more so than her two sons, Phaila always obedient and honour driven.

“I will lay out what I want you to wear.”
“Igen, Anya,” Phaila nodded, chin in the water, eyes great.

Feleseg - wife
Ferj - husband
Igen - yes
Anya - mother
Atya - father