The Phoenix and the Griffin

In his narrow bed, Amaras lay bare-chested, holding the semen and blood stained shirt in a fist under his chin and sobbed helplessly. He shifted, his leggings felt rough against his skin she had left him sore, adding weight to the despair at being parted from her this morning.

At sixty-two he had thought himself grown, having matured early and hard, lessoned in his parentage. He had endured much pain on its account but the haess ess of their plight reduced him to the stunning realisation that not only had he not run through his tears, but he, in fact, was not too old to cry. He had tears left enough for this, and he had the feeling that he had found a river under the aridness of his life.

He had been lonely, so lonely that when she spoke his name it sounded foreign. Yeand and years, he lived alone, and unloved by any save his mother. Not many wanted to traffic with him once the word bastard was introduced into conversation. Parents withdrew the welcome mat, and daughters were forbidden to speak to him. None had dared to mutiny; none that he had heard of. Oh, the others had swerved. They who had nothing to lose compared to his Phaila and what this marriage would cost her. She is a child and does not realise. He closed his eyes. Perhaps, but she was his wife, had been since her conception, waiting only to be found.

Fat tears rolled over his lashes; his eyes on the stars he pleaded for them, he who ignored his wants for their futility in being granted. Hope kindled for Phaila ceded without hesitation every wish in those few hours. Love me; yes. Accept me; yes. Believe in me; yes.

He smiled, sniffed through his stuffed nose, and thought on the image of her lying beneath him, the tear rolling back into her hair; smiling at him. It could not have been more perfect – for them.

He believed he would die of grief, of love. His life paling with the stars and blazing with the promise of the sun. He ached for herhe she should be here, and sharing his bed with him, curling against his chest, and sleeping in his arms. How would they get through twenty years if he believed he would not last the dawn? He laughed raucously and ground the heel of his hand into one eye as he hiccupped another laugh that grew until he lay braying with bitter mirth.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You look lovely,” Círdan smiled and took Phaila’s hand brought it to his lips and led her to the table, her puzzled, but pleased parents following.

“You are too kind, Your Highness,” she smiled, fingers curling over his and he sat her on his right.

They ate breakfast exchanging pleasantries, banal and meaningless while Phaila sat wrapped in her sorrow, enveloped in Amaras’. Never having had to be deceptive she struggled inwardly; thanked her Rohmë heart for its ability to keep its council hidden. What she worked to master this morning was an almost overpowering urge to get up from her seat and run to Amaras. She ate sparingly while pretending to listen to the conversations between her parents and Círdan. Putting her fork down she sat with her hands in her lap. She dug her thumbnail into the palm of her hand; using the pain to maintain a look of attentiveness instead of casting her gaze inward as she reached for Amaras through their joined hearts.

“I should speak to you alone,” Círdan laid aside his napkin and took up his cup of tea and sipped, he addressed her parents, “will you excuse us lady?” He asked Phaila.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Phaila slid from her chair and rose. Círdan stood and took her hand, raised it to his lips then released her. She thrummed with nervous energy but walked with measured steps to the door and out.

Círdan stood and stared at the door as it closed behind her; assuming what he hoped replicated a longing look.

“I understand that there may be an agreement between your daughter and another, an agreement as to marriage.” He asked resuming his seat.
“The son of one of my barons. It is a possibility Your Highness, he does suit, but they are young yet and he may prove differently.”
“So it is not set in stone…”
“No, Your Highness, it is not…” Curanor said cagily.

Círdan took a deep breath, “Ah,” he smiled and lifted his tea to his lips.
“I have a new stallion, would you like to see him?”

“Well done,” Curanor looked to his daughter seeing her differently, having come to her rooms to appraise her of the situation, “Whatever it was you talked of last night, well done indeed!” He looked to his wife who looked back as if there were any doubt that the Shipwright of the Gray Havens would not find her carefully bred daughter a suitable match.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Full of impatience for this day to end and an ssibssible need to see Amaras Phaila was driven to the archery range where she broke a bow drawing the string back in hands tense, arms stiff with frustration. She jerked her head to the left to avoid the arrowhead that swung when its place against the center arch of the bow gave and disappeared.

“It must have been cracked,” she smiled sheepishly as she held the bow by its’ string, the once solid piece of woow tww two. Eyes slid her way.

She quit the field and retreated to the wharf where she found a quite place to sit on a coil of rope thick as a man’s arm and stare across the water.

Círdan had weighed in. Her parents had taken the bait, ever hopeful to do better for her than a baron’s son. Berindon, they could keep them in a state of suspended animation, hold him at arm’s length, and would do so until the time of her majority and Círdan decided. The rest would be up to she and Amaras to sort out.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, her thighs ached and she had pulled a muscle in her right hip. Poor, sweet Berindon; the former favourite, nouffluffled to the back of the deck. No more long rides together, no more nights before the fireplace playing chess. He had become a trusted friend, and knowing the expectations, Phaila tried to see him as husband and accept. He was gentle, attentive and ever patient. This would be a blow to him and a great loss to her gone was her only confidant.

She had no friends at home. The leánys were childish and they tired her with their talk of clothing, and fiús. And tiús,iús, well, they strutted around her, preening and posing until she spoke with them and then they blushed and stammered. The grown hervenn steered clear of her; save her instructors who were married.

Amaras, twice her age, was bold and sure where others had stood back from her in awe of … her rank. The look in his eyes when they met hers across the floor was both sharp and soft. Colour drained from his face, and then a pale pink blossomed in his cheeks. Amaras …she knew the instant their eyes met; they belonged to one another. He saw her. He saw her. He had not hesitated to think the outcome of their marriage. She smiled ruefully, neither had she.

Amaras, a Shadow Rohmë and beautiful with his dark hair and sapphire eyes. Ah, he was breathtaking! She rubbed her cheek against the top of her knee, a smile of proud ownership that paled as she followed the trail of her thoughts. They shared a heritage that left a seemingly unshakeable stigma on them, while Amaras endured as an extra punishment a base-born state. No one would dare treat or misspeak to her before her family, however; behind their backs there dwelt another world altogether. For Amaras this hinterland of malicious remarks was a landscape he could not escape and physical violence lessened as he grew in stature and strength; he did not have her safety net of parental wrath. Hd ded dealt alone.

His mother bore grief enough having been the lover of his father who married another for reasons unknown, but easily guessed. She felt the pain he had experienced had fought the urge to pull away from the images and emotions that moved from Amaras’ heart to hers…such sorrow and a hate unimaginable he wrestled, with only the briefest of respites.

Bastard or no, he was born of the blood and would always feel its’ call. As would she in her immanent exiled state. She shivered, wanted to burrow into his chest, and the shelter of his strong arms. What strong arms he possessed…she drifted on physical pleasures newly experienced, and heartache she had never known.

Oh, she had not wanted to go, he needed comfort that only she could provide and if he had been … if he were not… she would have dared the morning sunrise for him. She would have stood and let him crow his love and claim on her from the tallest turret. She rubbed her cheek against her knee. Atya will kill him if he knows, and when he knows…Oh, Amaras. What do we do?

Atya - father