The Phoenix and the Griffin

“You have ed oed often with the Ar-Feiniel Lady, is there something to it?” Saeros asked Amaras as they strolled through one of the many galleries in Círdan’s house.
“She is pleasing, Atya.” Amaras answered carefully.
“You are a pretty picture together,” Elenriel smiled and took her husband’s arm.

Saeros addressed Curanor before Círdan, “Your Grace, Your Highness, I have a son…Amaras….”


His father had used only the sight of them to fuel the feud and had asked for Phaila’s hand for hin ben before the entire court. The Ar-Feiniel family had hissed; someone had laughed long and loud. Curanor had lifted his proud head and answered.

“I am afraid, Your Grace,” he spoke slowly his voice filling the hall, “your…son…. will not due. He has no rank and brings nothing to her bed but himself.” Her father’s eyes moved over Amaras from head to foot appraising him; judging him. “She will be countess and he….well…” He offered a polite smile. “You are kind in what is no doubt what you think a. …generous offer. I must see to my only daughter, and therefore I decline.”

This is the polite way to launch arrows and sink them with accuracy into tender flesh. Collateral damage was incidental.

Phaila stood and listened to her father decline the Tur-anion Duke who smiled smugly at the bait taken at his son’s expense, holding her face blank while a deafening hiss filled her ears. Her eyes went to Amaras who stood blanching of colour; his lips a thin line and struggling to keep from bowing his head and sinking in shame and shock as faces turned to regard him. His cheeks flamed, his mouth grew dry and his heart took on a low and deep thudding beat.

The Tur-anion quit the hall, and Amaras followed his father. Díriel and Beren quickly departed, looking first to Amaras and seeing an expression on their haunted brother’s face they had never seen before hastily left.

“How could you have done that?” Amaras asked white with rage and shame.
“Done what Amaras? I thought it would please you to have her…how could we be certain he would deny you unless asked.”
“Before the entire court?! You will forgive me, Atya, but I have never seen a proposal made before so many.” Amaras’ voice full of sarcasm. “What a stage you chose. You know full well what you have done!” Amaras shouted, “You care nothing for what I want; you never have!”
“Csend legyen!” His father bell.
“.
“Nyem! I will not!” Amaras stood fists clenched at his sides, “Why would you do this to me, Atya?” Hisce cce cracked and he was suddenly very young despite the fact that he stood as tall as his sire, and had fought already for him in twelve battles. “Why would you hold me up to scorn?”
Saeros narrowed his eyes at his son, “Ah, it is true then. You feel something for this leány.”
“Do you honestly think I would tell you anything?” Amaras’ voice a deep thunder, spun and walked away.

“Amaras!” His father shouted after him, “If they want this peace so …Amaras, ismét divatba jön!” He ended shaking his head feeling suddenly sorry. He had not reckoned on the depth of his sons’ affection.

“Bastard!” He screamed from his window. The insult directed at any number of individuals, himself included.


They must pass the day with the knowledge of his humiliation in their hearts while she must look chel; al; appear ignorant and amused by such an outlandish offer before her family when she wanted blood for this insult. Círdan had called for them tme tme to the spar before him later in the day. She moved automatically, leadenly, scarcely able to keep up with conversations for the whiteness in her mind. It was unimaginable that Saeros would hold Amaras up for ridicule; use his love to stir the embers of the feud that had grown cool. Yet done it he had. Amaras had not confided in him. Amaras did not trust him as much as he loved him; he did not believe Saeros’ sudden and inexplicable interests in him had foundation in anything remotely resembling familial love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Círdan when presented with the opportunity, liked to see the skills of his nobles. Today he had asked to see the children of the house Ar-Feiniel, in particularly, the Morrigan-in-training, having never seen one of these ladies in action.

He had looked forward to this, and was irritated with Saeros for dampening the mood with his public humiliation of his son, but Círdan would not set this aside. He must dismiss givegive it no credence, but he felt deeply saddened for Amaras who stood with blood-shot eyes among his family who had come to sneer.

Amaras had chose to brazen out the dishonor his father had laid on his head, as if bastard were not enough. Brave soul, Círdan nodded and wondered how his concealed wife was bearing up.

Phaila stood with her two brothers, hands clasped together before her. Waiting. She seemed well enough, but she was trained to screen more than love.

The Ar-Feiniel siblings swords were brought out, and Phaila breathed a silent prayer of gratitude that he did not want to see their riding skills, for Amaras had left her very sore, wonderfully sore, but too sore for saddle.

Her eyes flicked to him as she stood behind Padathir; his own eyes showed he was tired and strained. Wait until later, husband. I will ease that look from you, and leave you only tired. She tilted her chin up defying them and all that had occurred; it matters for naught between you and me, and I love you. Amaras gave her a ghost of a smile; thank you.

Servants buckled on protective leather pauldrons, greaves, cuirass, and vambraces. Círdan’s master of the sword, Atarnil, stepped forward, he would put each of the young Ar-Feiniel’s through their paces.

Phaila stood off beside her brother Padathir as Atarnil, sword master, tested Dagnir.

“What do you think of the Tur-anion?” Phaila asked Padathir softly.
“I do not think of them at all,” he answered narrowing his eyes at the ones who stood across from him before looking on his brother. A lie of course for his look said he would not mind at all putting his sword in some unfortunate Tur-anion’s throat.

Phaila gave a snort of dismissal and watched as Dagnir made an effort to take Atarnil, and was knocked to the ground for it. Phaila’s gloved hand came up to her mouth. Her brother had gone down hard; she looked to their parents who stood shaking their head in disappointment. Dagnir had a quick temper, and it was his undoing in the yard. They all had this fire of temper, but only Padathir and herself had learned to channel it usefully.

Padathir was beckoned next and he dueled neatly; precisely. Atarnil inclining his head with appreciation, and stepped back, saluted.

“Come little one,” Atarnil motioned to Phaila.

She walked swaying toward him and gave a practiced, graceful salute and stood head tipped down, looking at him under her lashes. Amaras’ heart stopped at her walk across the sand, and restarted with a leap at her salute. The sword came up between piercing eyes, and then away to point at the ground.

She stood left side turned to Atarnil, head lowered, eyes intent and she waited. She took Amaras’ breath from him, and he stirred against the public disgrace he experienced earlier.

Atarnil smiled, “The lady waits,” and swung over hand at her. She took the blade with her own, stepping away from the force, using it to propel her own swing upward making him defend. They stepped around each other, blades angled upward and he came at her again forcing her to slip left. He ran at her and she stepped back, their swords beating into one another, left, right, left and right and he smashed his shoulder into hers knocking her sideways. She scrambled to stay on her feet,ras ras took an involuntary step forward, but she flicked her sword between them, forcing Atarnil to move around her, he had lost his advantage. They circled again.

He was stronger and would beat her down. She took her sword in both of her hands to meet his blow, giving him a taste of her own strength as their blades met hers’ forcing his right, back. She followed through with a left-handed swing away primarily used for forcing the opponents’ sword backward, a move used when carrying an extra blade that would be snatched from belt and sunk into the now open and exposed body. However, Atarnil a seasoned veteran a saw mistake and flicked his sword up and over his shoulder then down at her. She caught the blade in her empty right hand.

Amaras gasped; caught the cry in his throat. Atarnil was horrified; he let go of the weapon. She flipped the sword, blade over hilt, grasped it in her gloved hand. She stepped into the stunned master; crashed the blades together, scissored them on either side of his neck and she leveled her eyes to his. Atarnil stared into the hazeled green eyes as pitiless and devoid of emotion as a wolf. Excitement, anger bloomed pink in her cheeks, her pupils dilated; she smelled blood.

Círdan stood shocked as everyone else; surely, she had injured her hand, but regardless. She had taken his master of the sword by surprise and had him.

“Are you injured, My Lady?” Atarnil asked coolly. Phaila stepped back, removing the blades from his neck and plunged his sword into the ground. She held up her hand for all to see…the palm of her glove, mithril.

Círdan laughed long and loud.
“Are we done, sir?” Phaila asked softly.
“Yes, My Lady,” he smiled and bowed to her and she backed away cautiously, flicked the blade of the sword up between them in salute, and turned.

“Valar, a Morrigan,” Amaras’ father asked loudly, “like her mother. What can you be thinking Amaras? Is she what you want?” He fanned again.

Precisely, and is what I posses. Amaras inclined his head to his sire. And Eru, how I hate you.

“What did you say, Sir?” Dagnir demanded across the arena.

Saeros jerked his head up at being spoken to in such a manner, “Are you speaking to me, my lord!” Saeros shouted.
“I will have you repeat what you said regarding my mother and sister!” Dagnir walked slowly toward the assembled Tur-anions

Padathir followed, “What?” He demanded from Dagnir not hearing Saeros’ sneer.
“Morrigan?!” Dagnir repeated the word in the same contemptuous tone.

Nurwen stepped forward; her lips parted to call her children to her, but Curanor’s hand caught her arm; stopped her.

“Dagnir,” Phaila caught his arm, “it matters not.”
“I will not have a Tur-anion speak so of you or our mother!” He turned his head to shout and the sound of swords drawn from scabbards filled the air.
“Béké Dagnir!” She snapped and stood before him, “Would you affect a mutiny in Círdan’s house?”
“Yes, listen to your sister who has more balls than you!” A young Tur-anion shouted mocly. ly.
“Beren,” Amaras took his young brother by the arm, “do not do this. Eljön.”
“I have done nothing,” Beren smiled innocently at the Ar-Feiniel siblings and their cousins who were backing them, “and am free to speak what I will, they should not be so touchy.”
“You should not say things that touch,” Amaras smiled and lay his hand on his brothers’ chest, and looked into his face.
“Such as…. bastard?” Dagnir asked smoothly. The arena went cold.

The Tur-anion roared in unison; save Amaras who turned and looked to Phaila…I would kill him but he is your brother; my brother now and as such I would give him a good beating.

I am shamed, her reply.

“You look too hard on my sister!” Padathir pointed his sword tip at Amaras.
“She has much sense for one so young, I was wondering how much younger you must be to be so foolish,” Amaras answered softly.
“Not so young that I cannot take you, base born.”

Phaila turned and backhanded her brother across the mouth, staggering him, “Csend! Be still,” she hissed.
“What are you doing?” Dagnir ndednded grabbing her by the neck of her breastplate, jerking her to him.
“I side with sense. Now, take your hand off me brother or there will be a reckoning.” She spoke quickly, but quietly.
“Bah!” Dagnir raised his sword hand to push off her; the blade struck her cheek, cutting her vertically over the cheekbone.

Phaila’s gloved fingers flew to her cheek and drew them back to look at the blood; her eyes went to her brother who looked back astonished.

She stepped ominously toward him and Amaras caught her arm.

“Valar!” Her mother shouted and took Phaila from Amaras, turned her face by the chin.

“Enough!” Círdan cried as his guard encircled the two families. “Enough.” He stood thunderstruck and looked to Phaila bloodppinpping from her jaw, “What is this?!” He demanded pointing at her and looking from face to face seeking an explanation. “Well?!!”

Phaila wiped her dripping jaw, shook the blood from her hand to the groangrangrily.

“We will finish this later, brother,” she smiled pointed a bloody finger at Dagnir and turned to Círdan, inclined her head and walked quickly away across the sand leaving a blood trail.

“Go after her, since you seem to be the only other who has kept his head.” Círdan said to Amaras.

Nurwen turned to follow her daughter.

“No madam,” Círdan snapped at her mother, “Attend me.”

Amaras caught up to her easily for she while she walked; he ran.

“Jön,” he took her arm, drew her to a bench along the walkway in the gardens, and sat her down.

Tears of anger mingled with the blood that ran down her left cheek. He stripped off his tunic and sitting beside her, turned her to face him and gently lay the cloth against the cut to stop the blood. She shook, her teeth clicked with rage and shame and hurt for her husband’s pride. There seemed to be no end to it today.

“Sssh,” Amaras comforted, his hand on the back of her hot neck stroked the tight muscles.
“Take me to your room, Amaras, take me to bed,” she said softly.

She stood in the center of his small room as he unbuckled the leather armor and set it aside, unlaced the vambraces, he knelt and unfastened the greaves and she ran her hand through his dark hair. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pressed his face against her.

In his bed, he slipped his hips between her legs and dipped his mouth to her breasts. She arched under him, moaned softly, gave a shuddering sigh, and drew her nails up his sides. He moved up to kiss her throat, ensnared her lips, his hair pooled in hers. He raised up slightly, reached down to position himself against her then gently, firmly pressed against her, slipped into the hot dark of her body, felt her stiffen at the invasionew aew a deep breath and begin to relax as he moved deeper and deeper into her until he was buried his entire length.

She moved with him instinctively, she ached still, but the ache was different. It was an ache of need.

“Yes,” Amaras hissed, “Oh yes,” as she raised her hips to meet his thrusts. Amaras held her hand in his pinned to the mattress beside her head, her lips parted in a half smile, parted with desire, her eyes locked on his with a wolfish expression. Her body so rudely wakened wanting to take in return. She bit her lip, and writhed with him, her free hand going from his shoulder to his hip, she shortened his thrusting by digging her nails into him. Colour suffused her cheeks, her breathing turned ragged, until she drew a sharp breath and rocked with him as he moved against some place in her that built pleasure on pleasure; she crested the wave. Amaras lifted his face from hers, feeling her muscles bunching under him, tiging ing around him. Her nails bit into his skin, drawing blood and her head snappedk, sk, she cried out helplessly. He looked at her face, eyes closed, lips parted in unhinged pleasure and his orgasm pounced unexpectedly; he followed, his voice chorused hers.

He lay over her, head dangling beside hers and he smiled.
Their hearts galloped together, their panting breath mingled and their eyes met; and they began to laugh.
“You are bleeding again,” he drew his fingers before her ear, wiping at the blood.
“I do not feel it,” she shook her head on the pillow.

He pulled from her, the air cool on wet skin that had been sheathed in her heat; he drew the sheet over them and gathered her shoulders in his arms to hold her tightly. They had had to keep much between them, easy enough, but denied the moments alone together that would enable them to gather strength; talk the anger and hurt over; bleed it from them; a choice must be made. Mar the moment when the heart tells all with grief, or speak of happiness to come. She gave a heavy sigh.

“I am sorry,” she murmured against his shoulder, “for what my father said…” and what he did not.
“He is right, kedevelt, I bring nothing to your bed but myself …”
Phaila thought for a moment, burbled an ironic laugh. “Ah, but what you bring, férj!” Amaras rolled his eyes in mock exasperation; laughed with her.

“I took it up with my father,” he said, “as much as I could, but I made a mistake in doing so.”
Phaila looked at him quizzedly.
“Now he knows I love you when before he had thought I only wanted you.” He sighed and looked at the ceiling, “I lost my temper and in doing so told him everything.”

Phaila rolled onto her stomach and looked at his face turned up in the afternoon sunshine that streamed through the open window.

She drew her finger from between his forehead, along his nose, across his lips to his chin making him smile to show he was not being sullen, only pensive. She leaned over him to kiss him and stood.

“You are going?”
“Igen, I must, I will be missed.”
“I am not satisfied…stay a little longer.”
“I think you will not be satisfied ever, kedevelt, and am glad of it, but I cannot, I do not want to go, Amaras, but go I must.” Her nose pinked and he bit his tongue, rose to sit.

Again he watched her dress, gather her armor and sword, gave him one last kiss and go. Alone, Amaras ran his hand over the damp sheet and its lingering warmth, touched the blood that laid a dot on the white linen.

He stood and began to pick up his discarded clothing.

Csend legyen - silence/hold your tongue
nyem - no
igen - yes
Atya - father
Anya - mother
Jön - come