Scarburg Meadhall

[Folwren]

Saeryn

Saeryn shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied quickly. “Nothing at all.” And then she grinned, for some reason finding it amusing that Harreld spoke more than usual. She handed the sword to him. “I’m in no rush to have it back. I feel more relieved just knowing that you can do it, is all. You see,” she went on, explaining the other half of why she had looked surprised, “back home, when father was still there, we had a sword smith who would take care of all of our weapons, and the iron smith just did the household things that I have ever seen you work with, so I wasn’t sure if you were able.”

There was a short pause and she hoped she hadn’t offended him by even suggesting that he couldn’t do it. She looked around the tidy smithy as she thought about what he had said. Although she had said she was in no hurry to receive the sword back, she did feel anxious about knowing just when she would get it back. “How long do you think it will be before you can do it, Harreld?” she asked.

--

Thornden

Thornden stood quietly beside Eodwine until he had finished, asking as he ended, “Have you any questions for me?”

“How long will you be gone?” Thornden asked. “You speak as though you thought you would be away from some time."

[Firefoot]

Scyld glanced over at Rowenna sharply, but following this initial reaction he decided he was unsurprised; she would notice such things happening in the camp. The question was, was she only paying such close attention to him, given the rather suspicious circumstances of his arrival, or did she pay attention to everyone?

“Can a man not simply do his work without having his motives questioned? I shall have to watch my step, for the attention you pay!” commented Scyld, making light of the hidden accusation in her words, as was his wont. He glanced over at her again; was that a slight flush to her features? Ah, so perhaps she was giving him closer than normal attention. As service to the Eorl? Or for her own purposes?

“You have noticed rightly, however,” he said after a pause. He lowered his voice slightly, as if taking her into confidence. “I am not wholly a stranger to these parts, for I dwelt here for a time. The lord here, Sorn… was not a good man. Some said he was mad; others that he was simply evil. I did not know him well enough to pass judgment.” His first lie. “Whichever it was, or both, you could not live here without coming to hate the man. I left as soon as I had the means, but recently I heard rumors of his passing and came to see if they were true; thus I stumbled across your camp here. Such a man does not deserve a legacy. The Scar – you probably do not understand how fitting a name it is. Sorn scarred everything he touched. So yes, it is with a will that I work on this old ruin, that what was here might be forgotten.” Had he said too much? No, let her chew on that story. He knew that for her it probably made more questions than it answered, and the concentrated look on her face confirmed it. “So does my tale pass your muster, my lady?” he asked with mock deference, breaking the dark tone their conversation had taken. “Or shall I spin a new one to match the suspicion that I am naught more than a scoundrel?”

[littlemanpoet]

Rowenna could feel herself coloring at Nydfara's first reply. He had grinned his reply, but the bite of his words had hit home nonetheless. Had she said anything about his motives other than to ask the innocent question? She had been careful in her wording, and quickly sifted her own question over again to see if there had been anything in it that had caused such an accusing reply. She decided that he had read more into her words than she had placed. She did not answer, choosing to give him time to fill the silence with more if he would; and did.

Rowenna listened intently to his words. Not wholly a stranger. Dwelt here for a time. Sorn was bad or mad. Rowenna noticed that Nydfara looked away while saying he did not know this Sorn; was this a lie? All, including Nydfara, hated him. Rowenna's mind flitted to the leader of the brigands whom she had hated while she behaved as his lover, confidant, and advisor, and wondered if Nydfara had had a similar role with Sorn. The more Nydfara said of the man, the more likely it seemed to Rowenna that he had known him better than he let on. And now he confessed that it was from hatred for Sorn that he worked on the ruin to wipe out the madman's memory.

“So does my tale pass your muster, my lady?” he asked with mock deference. “Or shall I spin a new one to match the suspicion that I am naught more than a scoundrel?”

There was indeed suspicion, but it was in secret. She had eavesdropped on Eodwine speaking with Thornden more than once during he past month, and had overheard Eodwine outline his concerns about Nydfara, that he did not take lightly that this man had been spying on them until Dan had found him and brought him in. That he had saved Dan's life was to his credit, but it did not erase his suspicions, for there had been something in his reply, that he was a wanderer unaware of recent news and unaware of the Eorl's arrival to the area, and that he did not know that the armed man who called after him was more than a brigand, seemed too convenient somehow. This had only served to heighten Rowenna's interest.

"Who suspects that?" Rowenna asked. "No one has used such words about you in my hearing."

~*~

Harreld

“How long do you think it will be before you can do it, Harreld?” Saeryn asked.

"One week," he said. "A sword takes more care than a ladel." He grinned. "How do you like Scarburg, Lady Saeryn?"

~*~

Eodwine

“How long will you be gone?” Thornden asked. “You speak as though you thought you would be away from some time."

"It will take a day to get there, at least a day to be there, and another to return. Three to five days, I wager."

Just then Crabannan came up with a rather lordly young man in tow. "Lord," he said, "this is Degas of the Folde. He wishes to speak to you."

Eodwine recognized him immediately and smiled. "Degas! It is good to see you! Have you found your sister yet? She is here."

[Gwathagor]

Crabannan had done some thinking while he and Degas searched about Scarburg for Lord Eodwine. They eventually found him near the edge of the village with Thornden and Stigend (both of whom Crabannan had labored with often during the past month), by which time Crabannan had been able to clear his mind and arrive at a number of conclusions.

Erbrand was interested in Kara - that much was clear, for Erbrand's sensitivity to Crabannan's remark about the kitchen-wench removed any doubt on that score. What had perplexed Crabannan more had been why he should have been so irritated by Erbrand's obvious interest, irritated enough to provoke the fellow, almost to the point of blows. This, above all, had concerned Crabannan, for it had made him wonder if he himself was not also falling for Kara - an instance which would have led to no good for himself, he knew. He was fond of her, certainly. She had been quick to befriend him - not any easy feat - when he had first arrived in Scarburg, and had been consistently kind to him since that day.

Crabannan had pondered this thoroughly. He was embarrassed to admit it, but it began to dawn on him that perhaps what he felt was a brotherly protectiveness towards Kara, and prickliness towards any who might be interested in her - such as Erbrand.

The notion that he might be forming attachments to these people had surprised him. He had been scared, too, at the thought that he might be going soft. He tried to remind himself: I'm a stranger, a wanderer. People don't like me, so it's no use trying to like them. He shook his head and walked faster. The less I think, the better.

At any rate, Degas and Eodwine turned out to be previously acquainted with each other, and they fell easily into conversation. His duty done, Crabannan turned to go - he hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and there was work to be done, he reckoned. Eodwine's next remark stopped him in his tracks, though.

"Degas' sister? Here? Who is she?" he asked in surprise.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas nearly fell to his knees in relief. "Tell me, please," he whispered, "is she well? I came to find her, but I knew not if I would find her safe or... or if I would find only news of her... The man who rode to find me knew little, and nothing of her. I thought to find you; I know not why she returned to him, but I knew that if she... escaped... she would seek you. She loves you... trusts you... There is no other man she would look to for safety the way she trusts in you to care for her, to respect her and love her. Not even me, her twin, her only living family. Is it true then, that Fenrir is gone, and I am lord now?"

Eodwine's eyes traveled over the boy - or perhaps now it was time to start calling him a man - and saw that in his travels, Degas had indeed grown wiser, kinder, and more compassionate. Linduial and his love for her had shaped him well; her family had strengthened those qualities which made Degas strong, and seemed to have cured him of those parts of him which were lacking. But now, the young man was as a scared child, his voice tense, shaking, as he spoke too quickly.

Eodwine silenced him with a raised hand, dismissing Crabannan with a few words, kindly spoken but firm.

"She arrived here injured, exhausted, and has spoken very little." Eodwine's voice was sure, though troubled somewhat still by Saeryn's unexplained presence. Perhaps now, with her brother here, she would speak more openly. Eodwine raised his hand again to forestall interruption, "I know that Fenrir is dead. This makes your lord. Are you prepared to take your place?"

Degas met Eodwine's eyes, standing taller, shoulders squaring, "They are my people, and I will do my duty by them."

[littlemanpoet]

"I believe you will," Eodwine replied with a serious smile. "Let us go to Saeryn now. She will be glad to see you." He turned to Stigend and Thornden. "I think now that I will be going to Edoras tomorrow instead of today. So let us set aside the work for one day and take joy in what has been accomplished. Go tell the others to prepare games, singing, and dance for the rest of the day."

"Aye, lord!" the two said, and made their way to family and friends. Crabannan had stood a little back from the others, listening, and strolled after the two leaders. Eodwine turned to Degas.

"Tell me of your adventures while we walk, Degas."

As Degas related what had happened during the last months, Eodwine paid heed to his tale, but also thought on Degas' first words once he had known that Saeryn was safe: 'She loves you... trusts you... There is no other man she would look to for safety the way she trusts in you to care for her, to respect her and love her.' Eodwine had been reserved with her, and she with him for the last month. There had remained a barrier that both seemed silently to agree upon. And now with these words, Degas threatened to demolish the barrier at a stroke. But was Degas right? Eodwine was not sure. That Saeryn trusted him for protection, he had no doubt. That she respected him as lord of this folk and place, he accepted. Even to care for her needs was befitting of his role. But love? He had not allowed himself to think on it at all. Now it was thrust upon him by her brother. He was not at all sure that she loved him, and he was less sure that he loved her. There was a subtle change in her and he did not understand it; or, was the change in him? Had he become hardened to her? Was this the barrier? Had she perceived it and dared not test it? He allowed a sigh.

"Do I bore you, Eodwine?"

"Oh, no. The weight of lordship and all that."

"Even on a day of celebration?"

"Yes," Eodwine grinned ruefully, "even on such a day as this."

They had come to the area of the tents and asked for Saeryn. She had been seen going to the smith. They made their way to the smithy; the door was open and Saeryn could be seen standing in the doorway, speaking to Harreld, who was hidden beyond the doorframe. With a glance she noticed them coming toward the smithy before she recognized who it was. Then she looked a second time, her eyes widening.

[Firefoot]

“Have you not?” asked Scyld mildly, his tone and expression belying the rapid pace of his thought. Had he misspoken? Was there indeed no suspicion? All the better for it. If this was so, however, he was a poorer judge of men than he had thought; that first day he arrived, the Eorl had seemed more skeptical of his story than Scyld had hoped. But regardless of whether Eodwine and the others had believed him, they had accepted him into their midst, which is all he wanted. Trust could come later.

But now Rowenna was getting too nosy; she needed to be put on the defensive. What sort of barb, he wondered, would best get under her skin? He continued, a slightly condescending tone in his voice: “Well, nor have I, but most folk would hardly say such a thing to a man’s face. So the question is, is there truly no one who suspects? Or do they simply not deign to share their suspicions with you?”

[Groin Redbeard]

There was a loud cheering in the tent and Erbrand guessed that Lithor was giving his speech. He slid the fiddle back into its case for later that day, and started towards the kitchen. Harreld had just come out of his smithy and was standing at the door, wiping his blackened hands in his apron.

“Harreld,” Erbrand called, waving his hands to get the man’s attention, “the festivities are starting.”

At this the blacksmith darted back inside his smithy and then emerged with clean hands and no apron; their was a smile on his face as he joined Erbrand in walking to the kitchen.

They arrived just as Lithor finished his speech, but not before they heard what was going on. Harreld’s face lit up at the mention of the tests of strength, Erbrand knew that Harreld could match and beat anyone in the entire camp, that much had been proven by his hard work in the last month. He didn’t doubt that Harreld was a gentle man, but he was also known to be a bit clumsy with it, too many times had Erbrand been the victim of a crushing handshake that would make any man wince. He intended to stay clear of him when it came to fighting.

Erbrand soon became closed in with the people that swarmed around Lithor with their requests. Separated from Harreld, he stumbled and pushed his way out of the crowd and into the open. His body was teaming with excitement. At last he would be able to prove his worth. It would be a chance for everyone to show their skill and he wanted to excel more than anything. It was not a test to see if he came first in every competition, it was a test against himself. To see if he was tough and callous as his aloof nature portrayed him to be. He swallowed hard the thought of humiliation in front of the entire camp.

No, he thought to himself, No! Not today, focus on the task and you will succeed. This calmed him a bit, but the thought persisted to unease him: how could he face his friends, how would he face Dan if he failed? His pride was everything to him.

It was then that he noticed that Dan was nowhere to be seen, which jogged his memory that the boys were still missing (the boys were often seen near Dan). Puzzled over their absence, even though none of the others seemed to notice it, not even Modtryth: the usually vigilant mother of Cenebba. It was not like the boys to be gone for so long in the morning; convinced that something was wrong he decided to go check on them himself. He did not mean to step out of line and anger Modtryth for being nosey, something he had hoped he was not known for. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little curious about their talent in archery.

He opened the door to the stall that held his horse and hoisted himself on Traveller's bare back. He prodded Traveller along at a nice easy trot before steadily progressing it up to a full gallop. Erbrand felt the same restlessness in his horse that he was feeling as the horse through back his head and whinnied loudly, it would serve them both well in the race today.

Before long Erbrand spotted the boys a ways off, who did not seem to notice him. Garmund and Cnebba were a ways off shooting their arrows at some stumps, while Javan silently, and solemnly, observed the boys. Erbrand spurred his horse forward, watching them with his stern discerning eyes as they practiced. He stopped his horse around a dozen yards behind Javan, and unknown to Javan silently watched Cnebba and Garmund.

Cnebba: the showoff of the three, was always in the front trying to get the best shot, while the more reserved Garmund battled with him for a fair shot. Although to a man such as Stigen or Eodwine this situation might seem dangerous, but Erbrand watched proudly as the boys kept their horses under control and fired decent shots with their bows (he was lost in the moment so much that he did not hear Javan’s shouting in a futile attempt to restrain them). Both the boys, with arrows knocked in their strings, walked their horses alongside each other, waiting for their chance to shoot, but soon their pace quickened in an attempt to outdo the other; before they reached their target the horses had gotten up to a trot. The boys fired simultaneously at the stump, with Cnebba in the lead, and the arrows hit almost perfectly. Whether it happened by luck or by skill Erbrand was amazed. He laughed loudly, which he always did when well satisfied, and clapped his hands in approval.

Javan swung around, startled at the unknown intrusion on their privacy. Javan’s abrupt movement startled Erbrand as well, he had forgotten that he was uninvited and unannounced. He immediately stopped and hung his head in embarrassment, until he looked like a hound that had just been rebuked by it’s master. He nudged Traveller closer to Javan.

“My apologizes, Javan,” he said, looking up into Javan’s eyes as if he were the lesser of the two, “I did not mean to spy on you as you may think.” Erbrand looked at Garmund and Cnebba, who had noticed his arrival. “You have taught them well,” he said again, thinking it wiser to change the subject before brining them back, “skilled hands such as those will prove well in the contest today. It is clear that lord Eodwine was not mistaken in choosing you for this task.” Erbrand's lips began to curl in a genuine smile.

[Thinlómien]

Modtryth was inspecting an ale barrel that was leaking according to Frodides. She could actually agree with that, for there was a narrow ring of spilt ale around the barrel. Modtryth just couldn't see any holes or loose seams. She was used to working in noisy spaces, but the current crowd in the kitchen made her curious. Somehow, half of the people of the Mead Hall had found their way to the kitchen. The boys weren't present, though, as Modtryth noted with a satisfaction of sorts. They were practising like they were supposed to. Modtryth was glad they had turned out to be so hard-working, although she didn't quite approve of what they were learning. But she of course was in no position to criticise the Eorl's decision, especially as it was so staunchly supported by the boys' fathers.

There was movement in the corner of her eye. She turned, and Lèodern rushed to her. "I found more twigs!" the girl exclaimed in delight. The two of them had woken up early this day, eaten breakfast and gone to collect twigs. There never were too many of them, yet they were needed for the fires. They of course got a lot of twigs from the felled trees, but the wood was young and moist while firewood was supposed to be dry. Modtryth smiled at the girl, who had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the task. "Excellent. Do you remember where we put the ones we collected earlier? You could..."

"Your attention please, everyone, your attention for a moment!" a loud voice interrupted. Modtryth fell silent, her lips closed tightly in a disapproving manner. She had no idea what this guardsman called Lithor would say, but she knew he was one of those people she rather intuitively and irrationally disliked. The man was more than a little older than she herself was, but behaved as if he was much younger. If you asked Modtryth, judging by Lithor's behaviour he could be closer to Javan's, or even Cnebba's, age.

The man proceeded with some nonsense about everybody having worked hard to rebuild Scarburg. Sure they had worked hard, but did they need this braggart guardsman to tell it to them? Modtryth tried not to show her irritation.

Finally, Lithor got to the point. Although she had never been enthusiastic about games or excessive eating, Modtryth was delighted by the news of the upcoming happenings. People were usually on good humour during festivities and this was a company where there would be no drunken quarrels or where no talk of filthy Dunlendings would be initiated after a few pints. Or so she hoped. She was looking forward to the evening and was applauding and cheering with the others, but she couldn't help wondering why Lord Eodwine didn't make the announcement himself.

"I want to dance," Lèodern decided, bringing Modtryth's attention back to her. "I'm sure you can dance, and every single man in the Hall will be delighted to dance with such a fine lady." Lèodern giggled, but there was a thoughtful look in her eyes. Modtryth supposed she was thinking about her friend, Lady Linduial, who was now in Gondor.

"Anyway, Lèodern, what I was about to say was that you should take those twigs where we took the ones we collected just a moment ago. Also, I don't think your father knows anything about these festivities yet. You could be the first one to tell him."

Lèodern's face lit up with delight, she took the twigs and ran off. Modtryth was about to turn back to the leaking barrell, when she heard Frodides exclaim: "Ah, look who we have here!" To her surprise, Modtryth saw young lord Degas in the company of Lord Eodwine. She forgot about the barrel. This was far more interesting.

[Folwren]

Searyn had obeyed Frodides when the elderly cook had told her to sit and wait. She remained at the small table, peeling potatoes with half a will. Her tears were finally drying, and she set her mind to how she would word her apology when the time came.

She did not turn her head when she heard Lithor giving his announcement, though her hands paused in their work and she listened to him. She nodded when he was through and the potato lost another strip of skin, when Frodides, looking up beyond Saeryn, said, “Ah, look who we have here!”

Saeryn glanced up at her and saw the bright, expectant light in her eyes and turned sharply around. She froze like a startled deer for half a second and then she shut her mouth, whipped back around, and gathered her courage. The next moment she was on her feet, the potato and knife laid aside, and slowly turned to face Eodwine and Degas.

“My lord,” she said, quietly. Her hands twisted together in front of her. She looked at Degas and met his eye. “Brother.” Vaguely, she was aware of Frodides getting up and quietly slipping away, giving them as much privacy as the corner of the crowded tent could afford. She tried to remember what she had planned to say, but looking now at Degas again, the words didn't come. “I acted badly outside a little while ago,” she faltered. Her eyes fell away from Degas’ face and she looked down at the ground between them. “I am sorry.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas was torn now between reactions. At another time, he would swing Lèodern into his arms and ask her many questions, listening delightedly as she responded at full speed and with many irrelevant details. His first thoughts at her arrival were that -- was it possible she could have grown so much in so short a time? -- he wanted to sing her a song he had written for her; and also his heart ached for Linduial, who had become fast friends with the little girl. Lin, who was with the beautiful queen, who Degas had not yet stopped to see. When, he wondered, could he see her? Before he saw his own lands? Before he measured the damage with his own eyes? Could he in good conscience ride to Edoras before leaving for the Folde, to see his betrothed, to speak his mind to her and seek her advice? Would she ride with him?

And what would her reaction be? Where they would live had been uncertain: as liason to the king and queen, they would need to be in Edoras; Lotherial had made it clear that appropriate lodgings would be available for her dear young cousin. But married, with a small family? Degas wanted to bring Lin home with him, to raise children where he was raised. To teach boys to play in the lofts of the stables, and to show them how to be men the way his father had taught him. Except he wouldn't leave them. He would not die before they were ready to live without him. But would Lin be happy there? The child-bearing wife of the lord of a modest set of lands, with a village at which many strangers stopped between Edoras and Gondor. Would she be content to live at Degas's home, now that he had one?

"Saeryn," he said slowly, his mind returning to the moment, "I would like you to tell me what transpired, so that I may return to the Folde with an understanding of what I must do for our people. I am lothe to return uninformed to meet people who ask me the very questions you did. You were right: I will not be welcomed with open arms, with weeping old women and stiff lipped men. I will be viewed with suspicion, and with, perhaps, anger. I have been distant, and then I have been absent. They do not know me. I do not know what resentment I must placate. The very least I can do is return with the truth of the events clear in my mind, with a plan at least beginning to form."

"Degas, you are not staying?" asked Lèodern sadly, eyes wide.

"No, most beautiful lady," he responded, kneeling, "Do you see how the buildings here have been hurt, and the land is sad, and your father and all others must work very hard to make this place a happy one again?"

She nodded.

"My home is sad too. I must go and help build beds to sleep in, and roofs to keep out rain. I must help cook and clean, and I must make many new friends."

"You have friends here," she said simply.

Degas looked up, and saw Eodwine watching, and Saeryn's sad eyes, and Frodidas listening from across the kitchen. Not far away, he heard Nain's voice, and that of Kara. He was fond of Kara. He would miss her friendly face when he left.

"And I will come to visit my friends here. I hope very much that my friend Eodwine will think someday of me as family, as I do him, and that we shall visit each other as brothers would, and speak as freely."

At that moment, Degas resolved to speak with Garstan. Perhaps it would be possible for Lèodern to be brought under the tutelage and care of Linduial. It was not unheard of for children to be raised amongst others, where they could learn new skills and help to develop friendships where before there was nothing. Lèodern would be well tended, and educated, and Linduial adored her as he did. It would be well to give Lin projects for her minds and her emotions, and perhaps the experience would teach Linduial much about motherhood. It would be a great comfort to Degas to have Lèodern's pretty face smiling amidst the sorrow he expected to find at a home he had not seen in many years.

[Folwren]

He wanted her to tell him what happened. He told her why. That he wanted to go back. She could scarcely believe him. Not that she doubted that he wanted to act honorably - he was always honorable - but it was so dangerous. A shadow of doubt and fear crossed her face, but Degas did not see it as he turned to meet Leoðern’s question.

Saeryn smiled a little as Degas knelt to answer. He had always liked children and he seemed to care especially for this little girl. It may have been for Linduial’s sake that Degas so cherished Leoðern. Now her twin tried to explain to Leoðern why he must go, but that he would come back and there would be visiting between all of them.

“I hope very much that my friend Eodwine will think someday of me as family, as I do him, and that we shall visit each other as brother’s would, and speak as freely.”

A gentle infusion of red colored Saeryn’s pale cheeks. Whether or not Degas meant it, she caught the hint - and she dared not look up at Eodwine standing nearby, hearing everything just as well as she.

Degas was finishing with Leoðern. “You promise to come and visit and not leave for a long time again?” she asked.

Degas nodded, then added, “Unless great need causes me to lea ve. But I will come back.”

The little girl hugged Degas tightly around the neck, drew back with a smile, and hurried away. With her worries put to rest, the preparation of the games appealed strongly to her now. Degas sighed, looking after her, and then stood up again and faced Saeryn.

“Can we talk somewhere else?” she asked.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas longed to embrace his sister, to make her forget her wounds and smile. She had been such a troublesome child, all innocent tricks and laughter. She had delighted the people with her bright eyes and merry smile. How long had it been since Degas had seen that smile? Not since Father had been alive. Perhaps she had smiled thusly since, yet he had been away. He had not seen it.

"Yes, darling, of course we can speak elsewhere." He turned to Eodwine, saying, "Friend, is there a place here we can speak freely without our voices carrying easily to others?"

[Folwren]

Javan didn’t like being snuck up on. Not at all! Especially when whoever it was would have witnessed this complete lack of control and safety. He was disgusted with himself and with Cnebba and Garmund.

But Erbrand did not seem worried at all by what he had just witnessed. He seemed a little disconcerted about Javan’s sharp, accusing look, and even apologized for coming unannounced. But he quickly went on into a new strain of speech. “You have taught them well! Skilled hands such as those will prove well in the contest today. It is clear that lord Eodwine was not mistaken in choosing you for this task.”

“Well,” said Javan, in embarrassed modesty. He didn’t know whether it would be proper to smile while receiving such praise, so instead he tried to keep his face straight, ending only with a comical looking grimace. “Well, they’re not as good yet as they could be.” Nevertheless, his eye sparkled as he looked at Garmund and Cnebba riding slowly up to them. “What’s this about a contest, though?”

Erbrand told them, for by now all three boys were sitting near him. By the time he had finished describing the games to be played, all three of them had bright looks on their faces.

“Go and fetch your arrows, lads!” Javan cried. “We’ve got to go mark our places in the games before all the grown ups fill the lists!”

[Firefoot]

“I think you are showing off,” replied Scyld, feeling at once amused and confused. He had tried several times now this morning to jilt her and had only succeeded in brightening her spirits. More than that, if he was any judge of a woman’s body language, she was even flirting with him. He had noticed, for example, how she had shifted the meat to the hip away from him so as to give him a better view of her swinging hips. So what did she want from him?

“Perhaps,” she replied neutrally, still grinning.

“And I think that your skill is not so much a game as you would have me think,” Scyld continued, “but your purposes are your own.” And with that comment they had reached the baker and the conversation was at its end. Without another word he turned and parted from her company. Quite an interesting woman indeed; it would behoove him to keep closer watch on her.

As he entered the company of the rest of the camp, word was abuzz of a day of celebration and contests. Well, that was very fine, though Scyld did not imagine that he should himself have much part in the games. His mental skills far exceeded his physical. No matter; the day would have other purposes.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine

"Friend," asked Degas, "is there a place here we can speak freely without our voices carrying easily to others?"

"I fear that there is no such place unless you desire the mess of someone's tent. I suggest that you take a walk outside the bounds of Scarburg, out in the open where no one can eavesdrop without being seen first."

Rowenna

“I think," said Nydfara, " that your skill is not so much a game as you would have me think; but your purposes are your own.” She raised her brow, her smile a little lessened, as they came to the kitchen. With that Nydfara moved away, and she placed the side of meat in Frodides' salt bed until it was needed later.

Lithor was talking up the games that would be played this day, and Rowenna, feeling much lighter and more playful than usual, was taken into the excitement. She went up to Lithor and poked him on the shoulder. He turned.

"Yes?"

"I want to be in the task path race, dagger throwing contest, three legged race, and the horse race!"

"Lass," he said with a look of mild scorn, "you have no horse."

She allowed a pout to her lips. "I'll find one!"

"Can you even ride?" he asked.

"I am a daughter of an Eorling land holder. Horses are in my blood! You'll see."

"Then go talk to Léof and see if he has a horse, and we'll see if your riding is as bold as your talk!"

"I'll show you!" she called as she marched away. "And don't forget the other three games I'm in!"

She allowed herself a very brief glance to see if anyone was observing her, such as Nydfara. She did not see him. Where was Eodwine? She wanted him for the three legged race. No matter, she'd find him soon enough. Now to find Léof.

[Firefoot]

“So how do you like that?” Léof asked Æthel as Erbrand left the stable area. “A new saddle just for us, and none too shabby either!” He set it down over a post nearby; he would not saddle her until he was ready to ride later on. “And a race today as well! Up for it?” Walking around her head he tugged her forelock affectionately. “Of course you are.” He led her to one of the few stalls that had been set up; most of the horses stayed in the paddock areas most of the time, but when a horse’s use was requested he would often catch that horse, brush him up, and put him away in a stall so that he would not have to be rounded up later.

Just as he was finishing up, he noticed Rowenna approaching, rather to his surprise. Rowenna had no horse and was therefore an infrequent visitor to the stables. This logically resulted in Léof rarely having need or opportunity to talk to her. “Good morning, Rowenna,” he said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, actually,” she said. “I wish to ride in the horse race today, and for that I need a horse.”

Léof only halfway managed to constrain a wince. “Well, let me think,” he said. There were a couple of horses that Rowenna could ride that belonged to the Hall rather than to individual riders, but while they were sturdy and stout of heart, neither was particularly fleet of foot. Even if Léof had the coin and inclination to bet, the competition would have to be poor indeed for him to put money on either of them. But how to tell this to Rowenna? Perhaps he could get her to choose for herself. “Well,” he repeated, “most of the horses here are owned by the people in the hall, like Eodwine’s Flíthaf or Erbrand’s Traveller, and you’d need permission I can’t give you to ride them. There are two other horses, though, that anyone could ride because they belong to the Hall. I could point them out to you, and if you like one of them you could ride it in the race.”

[Folwren]

Saeryn left the quarrel feeling wronged and guilty both at once. She wanted to go off alone to sort out her thoughts and her feelings, to figure out what she was to do next, and to cry the rest of these confounded tears. She definitely did not want to go help Frodides, who at this time of breakfast was probably at the center of all the inhabitants’ attention, but she had not made it a habit of disobeying lord Eodwine, even when he did not speak in a tone of voice worth cringing at.

And yet, she did not obey at once. She first went to her tent. She sniffed back her tears as she splashed water over her face, hoping that it would convince some of the redness away from her eyes and nose. Having done what she could, she got up, and went out.

She went to Frodides, and trying to stand so that the fewest people possible could see her face, she asked, “Do you need me to fetch you any water?”

[Formendacil]

Somewhat reeling from the activities of the morning thus far, Náin found himself strangely alone. He had not even eaten a proper breakfast yet, but already he had found deep thoughts to ponder in something completely mysterious involving Kara, that troublemaker Crabannan's memory coming back to mind--and the oddity of him popping up among Eodwine's people, of all places--not to mention Degas' confused arrival in camp. Degas wanted to see Eodwine because of Saeryn, but the Dwarf had not yet been long enough in the camp to know for certain whether she was there. If she was, it was an odd turn of events, since Náin thought she was supposed to be with the royal household, but he had long since given up expecting stability from Men, and those of noble birth had the means to wander.

In a sense, the fact that he was suddenly alone was rather odd in itself. Náin still wanted to see the Eorl, though he wasn't sure if Eodwine would want to see him, since he would probably rather send Thornden, Stigend, Garstan, or all of those three with Náin to assess the situation for building the new hall of stone, rather than attend to it in person. Still, it was the proper thing to approach the eorl first.

To that end, Náin had intended to join Degas in searching for Eodwine, but when Crabannan had become involved, the Dwarf decided he would rather wait. He had no desire to spend all morning in the troublemaker's company, and was afraid that if he found Eodwine with him, Crabannan might end up tagging along on the survey of the lands as well.

Deciding that the bit of breakfast he had had was not enough, Náin decided to head back toward where Frodides and the others were still providing food, only to discover to his chagrin that Crabannan had apparently not remained in Degas' company long. From the sour look on the troublemaker's face, Náin wondered if he might have been sent away.

Though not eager to encourage another chance encounter with Crabannan, Náin decided to risk it and get some more food, but as he approached the table, he noticed that Frodides was talking to a rather distraught looking Rohirric maiden, and he realised that Saeryn was indeed among the Eodwinelings.

The food wasn't worth getting drawn into whatever bad winds were blowing around Saeryn. Náin would have wagered quite a bit that her lack of complete composure and Degas' arrival were not mere coincidence. Very carefully, Náin turned around and decided to creep away from the breakfast table...

[Kath]

Frodides

“Do you need me to fetch you any water?”

The voice behind Frodides was quiet and not entirely steady but the old cook jumped a little nonetheless. She had been deeply engaged in straining an ear toward the conversation underway between a few members of the camp on the far side of the kitchen, which seemed to involve an excessive amount of conjecture and was all the more fascinating for it. It was for this reason that she hadn't heard the light steps behind her and why she turned round irritated at having been caught out.

"Well of course I don't, girl." She snapped, not aware whom she was addressing as she was looking down at her hands as she dried them. "That young trouble maker of Thornden's is in charge of that today as I thought everyone knew."

"I see." The quiet voice replied, and the strange catch in it finally induced Frodides to look up.

"Oh!" She cried, entirely surprised to find Saeryn standing before her. The last time she had seen the young woman Frodides hadn't thought her fit to be standing let alone offering to carry heavy objects and she said as much immediately.

"In fact," she continued as she inspected Saeryn's face a little more closely despite the girl's concerted efforts to hide it, "you look as though you've been having a rough time of it anyway."

Saeryn ducked her head even further.

"I was asked by Lord Eodwine to offer my assistance to you, and so here I am." She said simply.

"Mmhm." Frodides replied. "Well I'm sure that's not the whole tale but it will do for now. Offer your assistance indeed, you'd think he wasn't aware you'd been bedridden these last days and he certainly isn't that. Not a day goes by when he doesn't ask after your health. At any rate, you will not be wearing yourself out even if it is under his orders. I'm sure he'll regret them once he thinks them through and come to make sure you've disobeyed. Which you will." She said firmly as she saw Saeryn open her mouth to argue.

Shepherding the girl toward a chair in a part of the kitchen that was a little more sheltered from passers by she caught sight of a number of interested parties loitering in the doorway.

"Kara!" She called and was gratified to find her young protege materialising by her side in an instant. "I'm going to be busy with this young lady for a little while so you are in charge of dealing with the rest of the camp, and if I were you I'd start with those who are trying to poke their noses in where they shouldn't." She jerked her head toward the doorway and waited til Kara disappeared to do as she'd been asked.

"Now." She said, and pulled a chair for herself and little table up in front of Saeryn. She left space enough that the girl wouldn't feel trapped and would be able to leave if she wished. Given the slightly wild eyed looked of her Frodides didn't want to get in her way if she did decide to go. She placed a generous number of potatoes on the little table and laid out two knives and two little bowls.

"If you want to make yourself useful this is what I'll allow. Peelings into that bowl, potatoes into the other." She spoke simply, gesturing to make her words clear, and began the task. Saeryn followed suit slowly. "And if you'd like to tell me what's going on I'd be very happy to listen."

~ ~ ~

Kara

Having caught the meaningful look that Frodides had directed at the main nose poker at the door Kara made her way over immediately. The old cook had never taken to Crabannan and always watched him closely whenever he came her way, and as her attention was now wholly concentrated on Saeryn for reasons Kara wasn't even going to try to guess at she supposed that job had now fallen to her. It was not a prospect she relished as she rather liked the man. Their first slightly strained meeting had been followed by an apology from Crabannan for his somewhat brusque manner and a comfortable friendship had developed from then on that she was not keen to spoil by looking as though she was suspicious of him. A quick glance behind told her that Frodides was still focused on Saeryn and so she decided that for once she would pretend ignorance as to what her mentor had intended.

"Good morning!" She called cheerfully to Crabannan as she approached him in an attempt to chase away the scowl he was wearing. Pleased when she saw that she had been partially successful she continued in the same manner. "I suppose you're here in search of food like the rest of these bottomless pits?"

Crabannan gave his agreement and Kara turned to fetch him something, casting her eyes at the doorway as she did so in case there was anyone else lurking out there, either a member of the camp hanging around in hope of information about the morning's events or a stranger unsure of his welcome. What she saw made her think that it was perhaps the latter, as the figure she spied was slowly creeping away from the kitchen, yet there was something familiar about it. She thought perhaps that it was one of the boys, Javan or even Garstan, but no they had been heading off in the other direction.

'But who else could it be?' She mused, and then laughed out loud in delight and hope as a suspicion crossed her mind.

"Nain?" She called out, running to the entrance, ignoring the startled look she received from Crabannan. "Nain? Is that you?"

[Formendacil]

"Nain? Nain? Is that you?"

For a moment, Náin stiffened, caught like a terrified rabbit--albeit a terrified rabbit with enough muscle to carry a grown Man and a hammer as heavy as a small child--just as he had been trying to slink away unnoticed. But within a shaving of a second he had realised that the voice calling him was friendly, and indeed more than just friendly, but quite familiar. Letting the tenseness in his shoulders ease, he turned around and saw Kara running toward him.

Náin's first instinct when the young woman grabbed him in an impulsive hug was to stiffen up again, for Dwarves do not generally hug and Náin had always been rather bashful around human women, but he was glad to see Kara all the same--more than he had thought--and was considerably touched by her warm welcome. So he hugged back, with just enough Dwarven strength to make it precisely a bearhug--or it would have been if Náin had been closer to bear-sized, or at least Man-sized. At his height, it was something a bit more awkward, and Náin did not prolong the hug at all.

"Kara, it is very good to see you," he said, pulling back properly as quickly as he could. As fond as he was of Kara, Dwarven propriety was an overpowering instinct.

Even as he stood back, however, Náin noticed that Kara was not entirely alone, and while this would normally have made him distinctly more awkward, the fact that it was Crabannan standing somewhat away and looking both confused and curious made him cooler than otherwise.

It also reminded him of Erbrand and the trapper's reaction to the troublemaker's questioning earlier. Ignoring Crabannan as completely as he could, Náin turned back to Kara, who was expressing how good it was to see him.

"I see the move from Edoras has not harmed your health," said Náin. "Tell me"--and he unconsciously glanced at Crabannan--"what is the news about you. I mean!" he stammered. "What is new about... here. Around here."

Once again, Náin thanked Mahal that Dwarves have beards to disguise it when they flush.

[Gwathagor]

It had been a curious morning. The free and easy life which Crabannan had been living had been rattled somewhat by the arrival of Nain, whose presence served as a constant reminder of the past, his home by the mountain, and his parents: in short, of everything that he had chosen to forget when he had gone to war. Little had he suspected that only a few months later, while he was fighting alongside the Men of Gondor, the War would come to Dale. Afraid of the reproach he would face for abandoning not only his family, but his homeland, he had never gone back. It had been a long road since then, and only now, from Nain, had he learned that his father at least had indeed survived the War of the Ring.

Crabannan's mind was unsettled when he stopped by the kitchen. Too much had happened that day, too much that he was helpless to fight against. Thus, it was cheering and somewhat calming to him to see Kara for a few moments. She found him some breakfast, chattering on about the festivities that were to take place later that day (which he was happy to learn about; it meant less work and time for the harp), while he leaned outside the door. He knew Frodides was inside, and he was hardly in the mood to make himself a target for her tongue, though he had received nearly everyone else's that day.

No sooner had Crabannan received with thanks the plate offered to him, but Nain was suddenly there with them. The usually wary Crabannan, distracted as he had been by thoughts of the morning, had not noticed his approach and jumped a bit inwardly at the sight of the dwarf. As Kara and Nain exchanged pleasantries, Crabannan sat down on a handy barrel, crossed his legs, and watched them while he ate his breakfast.

And he thought for the first time about how he valued Kara's friendship, constant despite his manner and his reputation as a trouble-monger (which, though only partially deserved, was well-known throughout Scarburg).

[Folwren]

“And if you want to tell me what’s going on I’d be very happy to listen.”

Saeryn’s head bobbed in a nod, but for a minute or more, she could say nothing. There was a very large, very immoveable lump in her throat. She was thoroughly sorry for her actions by now and stuck in the kitchen as she was, she saw no possible way to rectify them. So, unable to do anything to lessen her regret, and being on the verge of tears (threatening to be almost as violent as her previous ones) she sat peeling potatoes mutely.

But one can only hold their breath so long, and like it or not, she had to breath in. The breath set off a series of short gasps, otherwise known as sobs, and she was hopelessly lost in tears for a moment.

Frodided set down her knife and reached across the table to pat Saeryn gently on the shoulder, murmuring comfortingly, “There, there, it’s alright.”

“I’ve acted such the fool, Frodides!” Saeryn sobbed out. “After he’d been gone so long and come back just for me, I treated him like nothing! I was so angry!” She wept to recall her words, and her blow. The knife was placed on the table and her face buried itself in her hands. She restrained herself suddenly, drawing her dignity back together. Her chest heaved and struggled with contained sobbing, but finally it ceased and she breathed again, hiccuping occasionally. She looked up and wiped her eyes.

“But what’s done can’t be undone, as you’ve told me before, I’m sure,” she said.

“No, certainly, you can’t cry over spilled milk,” Frodides agreed.

“And so I’ll just have to make up to him, ‘s all,” Saeryn went on with a tremble in her voice. “And Eodwine, too.” At the last word, her voice cracked and she pressed her mouth shut to keep her emotions back. She was quiet just a moment, and then, “I should apologize, right, Frodides? And Eodwine will understand, right?” Her dark eyes lifted to Frodides’ face hopefully.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine listened to Degas relate the tale of the last few months. So much had filled such a short time! Eodwine had seen ships in the harbor at Minas Tirith, and so had a small store from which to imagine Degas' adventures. Far more vivid was his thought of a burned ruin and Degas' and Saeryn's dead brother amid the wreck. But then Degas left off with his tale and began his complaint about his sister. As far as Eodwine could tell, Degas was right: Saeryn was being completely unfair. He was about to say so when Degas began again, speaking of how Saeryn had changed. Eodwine's mind briefly wandered to wondering precisely what the change was (for she and he had not spoken beyond the most general things) and what had caused it, but he was brought back to the present by Degas' next words.

"I do not think it was because she did not love you. I think, perhaps, that she may have loved you almost too much. I think, perhaps, that love terrified her. She has lost every person she has ever loved. What if she lost you as well? I wonder if she left first for that reason; I wonder if she turned from you to save herself from later pain. But now... now I do not know my own sister. I do not know her heart. I do not know her mind."

Eodwine slowed his pace and looked down; Degas slowed a moment later and turned to see him let out a pensive sigh. "Love, you say." He tried to find something to do with his hands, which suddenly seemed not to know how to lay at rest at his side, and he finally folded his arms. "I do not know that she loved me. Nor do I know her heart or mind, Degas. I think that she does not know herself. Her mind seems ruled more than ever by what she feels."

"Such is the way of women, my lord," Degas grinned, perhaps hoping to lighten their talk.

"Not all women, Degas. Not women who know themselves. Your sister does not, I deem, and so I must confess to you that though as lord I succor and love her as well as any other in Scarburg, I am both drawn to her and repelled at once. Maybe, Degas, when you have settled yourself as lord in the Folde, you will wish to have your sister by your side, for she and Linduial became great friends. After all, though I may have doting eyes-" he glanced at Degas with a small grin to see the quick wince of guilt on the young man's face at being reminded of his rash words "- but I am twice her age. An old man! She would do well to find a young man her own age with whom to live out many years rather than with someone who will become an old codger to bathe and feed and change while she is yet young.

"But enough of that. Are you prepared to ask forgiveness of your sister, and to accept her apology once she has sense to give it? For you are both in the wrong."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas flushed, thankful for the close cropped beard he had taken to wearing which at least disguised his red face. One of his oldest complaints: fair hair, fair skin, transparent emotions.

"I... er... I rather meant that her eyes were doting, not yours, Eodwine. Though I do hope you will still forgive me for saying it..."

Like a pup who has been caught with the morning's bacon, Eodwine thought. Degas's face was a mask of contrition.

"As for your age, you cannot pretend that it is uncommon for an older man, one whose wanderlust has mellowed, to take a younger bride. And you also cannot pretend that age will deter Saeryn. Or at least it would not have before..."

He sighed heavily. "I only wish she would tell me what transpired while I was away. Yes," he said suddenly, "of course I will ask her forgiveness. And she need not even apologize to me. I am so grateful already that she is alive; more than that I dare not ask for fear of being counted amongst those who are too lucky in life."

[Groin Redbeard]

It had been quick work cutting out the design for the last bit of the saddle and now his hands were busy sewing the last flap across the the underside of it the saddle. A smile slowly began to appear on his face as his work neared completion. He was very much amazed at the speed of his work, although it had been a small amount of work it was tedious and it pleased him that he coped with it so well.

Erbrand glanced up from his work, the unusual smile still holding, a breeze was in the air and there were just enough clouds in the sky to allow sufficient sunlight and shade for the day. He looked forward to the festivities that would take place later. However, the tranquility was short lived. The silence was broken by what sounded to him to be a snap, like someone grasping a dried stick in their hand and braking it over their knee. Erbrand's head popped up from his work at the unexpected noise, and looked around for what might have caused it. Around twenty paces behind him stood Eodwine with a person he had never seen before. The man's cheek was red and Saeryn, who was facing the stranger, looked as if she was crying. Erbrand's care free smile quickly faded from his face, and a look of concern took it's place, but man's voice was soon raised and Erbrand guessed from what he was saying that he was Saeryn's brother Degas. He had heard about him from Frodides and the kitchen ladies.

"Can't we have one day of peace without people getting in a tizzy." he muttered to himself as he put the final stitch work on the saddle.

It was then that he heard the stern words of Eodwine: "Go at once!" The argument had settled down between the two siblings, but it irritated Erbrand to see such a public display of emotions and feelings that he was subjected to listen to. With a growling sigh he lifted up the saddle upon his shoulders and walked towards the stables. They were not fully built yet, but Stigend had done an admirable job with making some makeshift pens to keep the horses in.

The saddle was complete and he turned it over and examined it from many angles. Yes, it was of good quality and would last a long time. He took pride in the fact that he was and expert in his field, but it was a humble pride that he would keep only to himself. This first saddle would be a gift for Léof, the boy who watched after the horses. The boy had taken great care of the Meadhall's horses and Erbrand admired the unselfish hard working boy. Traveller had never been in better hands and almost obeyed Léof more than Erbrand.

Léof was grooming the horses as Erbrand approached. The boy paid no attention to him as he came closer, softly humming to the horse he was grooming.

"Good morning," said Erbrand, raising his hand in a friendly wave as he came closer and placed the saddle on one of the stalls. "I've brought you something, Léof, I just finished it this morning."

Léof put down his brush and picked up the saddle. "Where should I put it?" he asked in indifference.

Erbrand lowered his head and chuckled, "The saddle is yours," he said, "I thought it was high time that you have a proper saddle after the incident with the fire," he bit his lip and lowered his head as the boy eyed the saddle over, "Do you like it?"

[Firefoot]

A look of amazement and gratitude slowly crossed Léof’s face as he took in what Erbrand was saying. The saddle was not for the Hall’s general purposes – it was for him. Speech temporarily left him, long enough for the other man to ask with some uncertainty, “Do you like it?"

“This is fine work!” Léof exclaimed, now surveying the saddle with greater attention, running his hand over the stitching and appreciating the craftsmanship. “Far nicer than – than the one I lost.” A shadow crossed his face at the words. The one he lost – Herefola would always be “the one he lost.” Léof hurried on, not wanting to dwell on it. “For all the time and work you put into this – it must be worth far more than ever I could pay you–”

“It is a gift, Léof,” broke in Erbrand. “If you prefer, consider it thanks for your care of Traveller.”

And Léof again had no words, unaccustomed as he was to such tokens of kindness. More often than not he kept to himself and went relatively unnoticed by the others of the Hall, and since the fire he had receded even further into himself as a general rule. He did his work, and it was enough; the horses were his companions. “Then I accept your gift,” he said finally, “and I thank you for it. I shall have to try it out soon; it has been a while since I have taken Æthel out riding anyway.”

[Firefoot]

How could she believe that? How could she feel any kind of belonging here, where no one could possibly understand? Four months here, and perhaps he understood the allure, but not the trust.

Maybe you should not have started with an assumed name.

Maybe you should have left Sorn long before you did, and not gotten caught up in his unlawful plots.

“Where did you spend the last four years?” she asked, maddeningly turning the conversation back to his past.

Scyld shrugged, as if the question did not bother him. “Here. There. No place I would call home.” The word was laced with cynicism - the sort of cynicism he had largely kept bottled up since making himself known at Scarburg. He found that now he took no comfort in it, as he once had, thinking himself cleverer and stronger than those he had dealings with.

[littlemanpoet]

"Home," he said mockingly, as if she were a fool to believe that she could believe Scarburg to be home. She could take offense, or be defensive. Or she could try to be clever. It would be the most enjoyable, as she thought up the play on words.

"So, then, you are most at home having no home?" She gave him a half grin and a tilt of her head, curious how he would react to the tease.

[Firefoot]

It took Rowenna a moment to reply, and for a second, before she spoke, he sort of expected her to answer with some sort of vague platitude. It was what Linduial would have done, and being in this place brought her close to mind.

"So, then, you are most at home having no home?” she asked playfully.

He stared at her briefly, unarmed. Then he laughed. None of his usual stratagems worked on her! She returned his provocations with jests, and for once his honesty seemed to be getting him farther than his lies.

“Without a home, perhaps – but not without a house. Outdoor living does not suit me,” he answered, feigning an air of snobbery.

[littlemanpoet]

"You have such high standards," Rowenna returned with a grin.

But she felt a strange sensation, something she vaguely remembered from some long ago time wrapped in mists of memory. It was associated with taking care of a very small animal that had lost its mother to a predator; she had cared for it until it died. She did not like the feeling: it was not her place to take care of a little lost one. And Nydfara was not that.

Nevertheless, her grin had slipped to a momentarily creased brow and a frown on her lips before she recovered.

Forcing a smile she asked, "What sort of living does suit you?"

[Firefoot]

Yet now he tried to jest and it fell flat. He’d seen her smile slip, just for a moment, and he had seen sincerity in her face enough times to see now that this was not it. He did not understand her: nearly all of his experience in life would suggest that she was merely manipulating him, feigning an attraction she did not really feel. He believed in his own ability to read people well; he would not have lasted so long with Sorn were it not so. And from Rowenna, he was receiving wholly mixed signals.

What do you think she would want with you anyway? You see how she is drawn to this new home she has made for herself here. She wants your secrets – nothing more.

He turned and faced the horizon again. “A place with a warm hearth,” he answered, rubbing his arms. “It grows chilly just standing here. Perhaps you are ready to return?”

[littlemanpoet]

"Yes, I'm ready."

They turned and she followed him back through the scar to the yards of Scarburg. As they came to the crest of the final hill before descending back into the yard, she noted smoke coming cheerily out of the smoke house, and recalled a most uncheery sight that had been discovered there.

"There was a dead body in the smoke house when we came here. Did you hear about that?"