The Phoenix and the Griffin

Círdan led Phaila out for the opening dance of his ball.

“You are the devil, Your Grace, I should sit at your feet, I would learn much from you…I think that I have,” Phaila smiled and laughed, earrings flashing in the torchlight as he turned her around the floor as they danced alone.
“I have bought you time and put it so that no shame will fall on you or your family, free you for your Amaras,” he lowered his face beside hers, his neatly trimmed beard touching her cheek. “You will always have my friendship,” he assured her, “and if need be, my sword.”

Amaras stood watching flushing with jealousy at the Shipwrights attentions on his wife.

The floor filled after they made their forth sweep.

At the end of the waltz, Círdan released Phaila, bowed to her deeply and escorting her to her beaming parents.

She took a goblet of wine from a passing servant, smiling her happiness she brought the goblet to her lips and found Amaras staring at her. She gave a slight nod and he began his laborious approach.

He bowed to her and she set her goblet aside and followed him to the floor.

“Férj,” she smiled looked away from him, “Círdan is for us.”
Amaras growled softly, “Tell me.”
“He has made my parents believe he is interested in me,” she his his neck tightly in her hand. “Hear me,” she related the scheme.
“And do you trust him? Do you believe?”
“Yes, do you feel there is something more to it?” He was older, more experienced.
“I do not know,” Amaras answered looked away, flushed with desire and doubt, he had no one to council him, no one to trust save his strange feleség leány, who had the ear of the Shipwright. Yes, he would trust Círdan, until proved wrong. Then there would be his own levy to obtain from the Master of the Havens.
“We must have faith, husband,” she turned her face across his, caught his eyes for a moment. “Please Amaras, or I will cry, I do not know what else to do for I love you so, and it is decided for us. We must trust him,” she blinked rapidly, gave a brave smile.

Amaras smiled, his finger stroked her back.
“Igen, szeretett, igen,” he soothed her, wanted to kiss that quivering bottom lip, instead tightened his arm around her, pulled her closer as they danced.

How small she felt in his arm; it encircled her easily. He smelled her hair, sweet almonds. He never wanted to relinquish her; felt desolated when he did.
“Come to me tonight,” he charged her. Would she dare?
“Igen,” She nodded her eyes sharp with tears that had threatened moments earlier, her nose losing the pink tint. Of course she would.

Curanor narrowed his eyes at the Tur-anion bastard moving his daughter across the floor.
“Let it go,” Nurwmilemiled, “a little jealousy, a little desire will only fan the flames of Círdan to possess her. Let him see that others want her. Even if bastard born, he is very eye catching.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amaras sat at the small desk and looked out the window at the stars that were beginning to fill the sky. No chaste lover prepared him for this. He had gained only a vague experience of the mechanics, and his heart was new to this engulfing love. He ached continually merely for the sight of her. Could smell her in the room carried in on his clothing, hear her voice in the wind, when he slept he dreamt of her. She haunted him. Did she dream of him? Did he haunt her? He smiled. I am mad. Do all who love experience this? How long does it endure? Does it fade with the passing of time? Wane with years? Does familiarity bring to a halt the excitement of kisses and the rapturebed?bed? He stood and stretched his arms over his head. Valar I hope not.

He reached for his cup of wine, and looked around the room. It was so small, and shabby. The bed was tiny and hard, the furniture worn and gouged. It embarrassed him. What would she think being accustomed to finer things? This was no place for his wife. He had gone to the market and bought candles, scented wood to make it nicer for her, for him, for them. It had been no idle talk weaving their palace in the air the night of their binding. He would give it to her if it meant he must hire out his sword, and build it with his own hands.

She made her way to his room, cloaked and hooded. There were no bodyguards or servants posted here in this seldom used wing and she ached for the pain it must cause Amaras. He was never far from reminders of his station.

At the door, she scratched softly and waited, dagger up her sleeve.

Amaras opened the door and looked at the figure that stood before him, the cloak hanging off the slender frame. She raised her gloved hand to push the hood back and he yanked her into his room, closed the door and leaned againstas sas she laughed and removed her brooch.

She turned in a circle, taking in her surroundings, drawing the dagger from her sleeve; she tossed it onto the small dresser. One room, one tiny window, a single bed and a desk under the window. Bees wax candles burned brightly, a brazier of apple wood scented the room and provided warmth against the chill of the bare, stone walls. No arras’ ten years on the loom decorated these walls. No rugs thick and soft lay on the cold gray stone floor but he kept it neat and clean. He was proud.

She tossed off her cloak and threw herself into his arms. He caught her easily, elated and chided himself for doubting her. She saw and cared not. The Valar had chosen wisely for his soul mate.

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. With his mouth on hers he carried her to the bed, crawled on his knees and fell with her ath ath him onto the mattress.

They undressed quickly, touching, and kissing as hands removed clothing, sitting up they tugged boots off to toss them aside. Amaras dragged her down into the bed, rolled over her and entered her impatiently. She gasped, and twisted under him slightly as if to escape at the last moment. He gathered a fistful of her hair in his hand to hold her still.

“Sssh.” He whispered harshly, and covered her mouth with his own. He had wanted to hurt her, and wanted to hurt himself. Pain was real, pain was every dsoftsoftness broke his heart. Her gentleness a wonder and much sought in his life now found confused him. He prayed the time would come quickly when he no longer felt this way.

He seized this irrational need, attempted to move with more tenderness, more consideration, but she dug her nails into his hips urging him to grip her harder, thrust quicker, deeper lifting her own hips to meet his until he reared over her to bellow his release.

“I hurt you,” he murmured as an apology and swept his hair back from her face.
“I am still sore from three days ago,” she ran her hands over his hips.
“I am sore too,” he admitted and she gave him a questioning look.
“You are very tight, my love.”

Phaila looked away bashfully, buried her nose against his upper arm.
“Is a good thing,” he reassured, kissing her upturned cheek and she laughed.
“Maybe you are very big,” she said, her lips moved against his arm, she slid her eyes at him to look under the lashes.
“Hmmm,” he considered. Leaning up he ran his hand with mock preening gesture over his chest and together they laughed.

She reached out her hand toward the desk and the goblet sitting there. Amaras reached and took it, handed it to her.
“I cannot drink lying so.”
“I am not moving yet.” He took the goblet and drank, lowered his lips and let the wine flow from his mouth to hers.

She swallowed the mouth warmed wine, “more.”

“How many lovers have you had?” She asked laying on her stomach she looked out of his window, her hair spilling down her back to her hips in a tangle of damp curls.
“Two, but,” he lay on his side looking at her, “not like this, Phaila. I never touched them so.” He ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip. He bent his head to kiss that shoulder.
She rolled onto her side to look at him, “Is this so Amaras? You have never…?”
“Nem, feleség,” he smiled bashful himself of a sudden under her intent and questioning look.
“Oh, Amaras,” she hugged him fiercely, gratefully for handing her his innocence in exchange for her own. An undreamed of and matchless gift.
“So, you see, I am learning from you.” He held her, looked down at the top of her head.
“Then we are in trouble!” She laughed. “For I know nothing.”
“You know me and that is enough.”
“Ah,” she rolled away to look at him, “that is your pride speaking.”
”No, wife, it is humility, for I knew nothing until now. We will learn from one another.”
“Teach me more,” she ran her hand over his abdomen.

Amaras lay arms folded behind his head, smiled and watched as Phaila studied the part of him that was duly, properly lessoned this evening. Her bashfulness ebbed and flowed. The definition of her had changed abruptly and she was only beginning grasp what had lain in the middle distance before a few days ago. He wondered if he had made a mistake in abruptly taking her. Mayhap he should have wooed her, eased her into the marriage bed. His lust had overrun him, he had held it tenuously reined, but oh when he touched her…. the reins were jerked from his fingers.

She, he ran his hand over her head, did not seem the worse for it.

On her side, she laid her head on his stomach and examined him. This hardness invaded her pleasurably, painfully and smiled. It seemed such a harmless thing as it lay softly on the sheet between his thighs, rningning against the sac that contained his seed. Hard, it was formidable, thicker than the curl of her fingers, reached passed his navel. She raked her nails through the nest of dark, crisp hair to cup the pouch, took the long, soft length of him and rolled back the skin to glide her thumb over its head. She slowly ran her tongue over the velvet skin, an impulse.

“Oh” Amaras moaned with pleasurable surprise; grasped her hair, and Phaila smiled.

“I hate you having to skulk away,” he sat on the bed watching her dress. Hate? Mild word to describe how he felt on her leaving.
“I hate skulking away, husband.”

He could not look away as she stood on one leg to pon hon her boot, and then the other, like a stork, he smiled and reached out, caught her wrist and drug her to him, the room was that small.

She sat legs curled beneath her between his long muscled thighs and wrapped her arm round his waist with complete abandon, breaking his heart in having to watch her go.

“I love you, Amaras, I love you so I can scarce breath.”

Amaras took a hitching breath as she buried her face into the center of his chest, breathing him in, blinked back the sting of tears and wrapped his arms around her head. She disengaged from him, stood quickly and tucked her shirt into her leggings, while he sat naked watching her with glittering eyes. She wiped her own, laughed and Amaras smiled.