Scarburg Meadhall

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

He felt warmth flood him at the look of sheer joy on his sister's face, yet at the same time he felt... cold. Distant. He felt the lonely tragedy of a poet in love, with the love of his life within riding distance, yet at the same time she seemed so distant as to be on the far side of the water, far away in the West.

He loved his sister, and he wanted her to be happy. He was joyful that she was happy, and to wed a man like Eodwine was as much, if not more, than he had ever asked for her. He would love her, and care for her, and they would be friends and partners as well as husband and wife. Saeryn would be safe, and she would have a home which was her home, which she presided over, in which she was so much more than a mere woman.

Yet that she should be wed this very night, when his fast approaching dawn meant telling his intended that their wedding would be, yet again, delayed, meant that Degas felt nothing less than envy.

Eodwine, friend and brother that he had become, would tonight become a husband. Again.

Saeryn would be joyous, would tomorrow and henceforth carry herself with the pride and knowledge of the depths of womanhood.

And tonight, and for many nights, Degas would sleep alone.