Eorling Mead Hall

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Of all of the responses Eodwine could have given, none could have surprised Degas more than this. Saeryn looked at Eodwine, an unreadable gleam in her eye. Eodwine looked back and forth between the twins and waited for a response.

Degas waited patiently for one to come to him. Saeryn, still embarrassed over her earlier outburst, quietly hoped for somebody to speak and hoped that it wouldn't be her. Finally, Degas replied in a most repetitive fashion:

"You... do not... wish to court my sister?"

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine smiled. "No, Degas. Not now. You see, I have had dreams. Dreams of my wife, whom for fourteen years I have thought dead, killed by marauding Dunlendings. But these dreams, Degas-" Eodwine's eyes glistened and his face became taut with sudden passion. "-she comes to me in my dreams not as I knew her, but as one who has aged as have I!" Eodwine stopped of a sudden and stared earnestly at Degas, then relaxed a little, shaking his head and chuckling ruefully.

"Lord?" Degas prompted.

Eodwine met his eyes. "It is not proof that she lives. Well I know it. Therefore I must go to Dunland. Not yet, but some time soon. I must go there anyway to see to the case of Manawyth, but now I have the greater urge to go. So go I shall." Eodwine turned to Saeryn, allowing the warmth he felt for her to show on his face. "Yes, Degas, your sister is-" he paused "-dear to me. In a way no woman has been in many a year. If not for my dreams, I would seek your favor. But for now I cannot." He faced Degas again. "Not until I know my wife is dead-" he paused again and tears appeared ready to spill, and his voice trembled "-or if my dear Kéðra lives."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas sat pensively for a moment before responding, and though now words came to him with more ease, he still spoke slowly, cautiously.

"If that is how you feel, it is better indeed that you refrain from the asking. I would not have it that my sister is taken into courtship by a man still haunted by his past, though my words perhaps do not express it how I would have them do so." Degas breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He wondered what Saeryn's thoughts were, but her face was unreadable. He hoped that she would share later, but held no delusions that her anger with him had waned. She had checked herself, silencing herself with no small amount of effort, and had schooled her emotions, but her outburst spoke of thoughts that had doubtlessly lingered for quite some time. He wondered how long she had been annoyed with him, perhaps not even realizing it, before she had lost her patience. He looked at her quickly, wondering where the red headed girl he had left behind had gone.

He'd seen her, certainly, since he'd left. He'd returned home many times, and had written every few days. But he had not been there to see his sister turn to the young woman that sat quietly before him. On a day long ago, she'd have exhausted herself wrestling him into a water trough, would have laughed as he, sodden, pulled himself up by the rim, and would have danced away with a grin, forgetting her anger and playing chase through the long grass after. On a day long ago, she'd have come to him immediately to share her secrets, would have expected the same from him.

Degas realized then that she had not sought him out to share her thoughts at all since he'd returned. She smiled and laughed and teased him with the same enthusiasm as she once had, but she was not the girl he knew any more. He thought of Linduial... he had not spoken to Saeryn of her. He had not even told Saeryn of his trip to Lin's home, excepting that he was back and had brought Farahil. They did not talk now... he couldn't remember when it had happened. Was she even interested in courtship? He had taken it for granted that she would be... but he had not asked. He knew that she was unhappy in their childhood home, but had he asked her why she had left? No... he had left it to her to come to him, and hadn't questioned it when she did not. He wondered at himself how he had not noticed before, and looked sadly at Saeryn before looking back to Eodwine.

"I wish that you should find whatever it is that you seek, Lord Eodwine. I wish that we, all three of us, should do so." With a few more words, he bade the lord of the hall goodnight and smiled questioningly at Saeryn before leaving. He would find a way to make it up to her... he did not know how, but he would get to know his twin again. He would win her back, and things could be as they once were. A few short moments later, Saeryn followed Degas's example and left Eodwine, making her way in the dark to the kitchen. She prepared herself a cup of tea and fell asleep where she sat, head resting on her hands on the table, the unsipped tea growing cold beside her.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas stretched beneath the statue of Falco, leaning lazily against its base with a lute in his hands. He strummed it, tuning it quietly, and hummed a little for a moment. He had not sang in Eodwine’s Hall and was uncertain as to what the reaction would be, yet it was a beautiful day.

It was early yet; the sun was just breaking the horizon. Farahil and Leof readied mounts inside the stable. Saeryn slept still, having woken suddenly in the middle of the night and relocating herself to her room after the initial confusion of her whereabouts. Lèoðern had met Degas coming from his room with the instrument and had taken his hand sleepily, a thumb in her mouth. He smiled and now she sat in the dirt before him, watching his fingers caress the lute strings.

“Sing me a song, ‘egas?”

“What song would you have me sing, little lady?”

“A pretty one.”

“Ah, a pretty one…” He pretended to think for a moment, running his fingers practicedly over the lute to make it hum. Lèoðern giggled, as he’d known she would. He took a sip of the water he had brought with him and coughed lightly to clear his throat before plucking a few short practice chords. Quietly he began, not wanting to wake anybody, and his voice grew as the song went on. It started slow, with soft notes, and he sang as if to Lèoðern.

A heart beat ever heavily,
Its feet to tread the world alone;
It asked its master pleadingly
To find a lass and make a home.

It wandered hills with only song
As comfort for its loneliness
Begging softly all along
To settle down in happiness.

The master heard the heartfelt plea
And begged his heart to hear.
Wouldst thou, heart, please wait for me?
‘Til settling I no longer fear.

The heart spoke back to master’s words
And softly it did say
I’ll wait for you, loyal to you,
Until our dying day.

From hill and field the harper lad
Sang for his bed and mead
But ever onward thought he had
Of what his heart did plead.

With laughter then he met a lass
And thought of her as fair
And so a time did come to pass
That none other could compare.

Her voice and laugh was its own song,
Her heart the beat he cared for best
And finally time did come along;
He wished to stop and rest.

His wandering days he left behind
But cared less than he’d guessed.
But time now came to try their minds
And put devotion to the test.

The lady made a heartfelt plea
And hoped his promise true:
Wouldst thou, love, please wait for me?
‘Til I return to you.

The harper spoke to lady’s words
And softly he did say
I’ll wait for you, loyal to you,
Until our dying day.

[Celuien]

The last notes of the song faded, mingling into the soft rustle of the alder leaves in the breeze and the warbling of the finches. Lèoðern's eyes were wide as she looked at the singer, now silently running his fingers over the lute once again.

"That was pretty, 'egas."

"Thank you, my little lady." He gave a bow from the shoulders, sending Lèoðern into giggles again. She quieted herself and sat still, her elbows on the ground, propping her chin in her hand. Degas absently strummed a few chords in accompaniment to the songbirds. The birds redoubled their singing, seeming to understand the sympathies of the human musician and to be eager to join him in a duet.

Degas' song was pretty. But the words were so sad for an early morning in the springtime, with the sun shining through the trees and casting the shadows of the merrily waving leaves on the ground. The poor harper and his lady didn't seem happy. Lèoðern glanced upward again, tilting her head to one side in a question.

"'egas?"

"Yes?"

"I like that song. There's a story. But it's a sad story. Did the harper really die? And the lady too?" Lèoðern's face was frank and open in its curiosity, unsuspecting of the song's significance to its singer. "What happened to them?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas smiled sadly at Lèoðern, wondering for a moment what it would be like if she were his own. He'd always liked children and already missed Feo's presence. He started at the thought and pushed it away.

"I do not know what happened to them, m'lady, for their story was not finished before the song was completed."

[Celuien]

If Degas knew the beginning and middle to the tale told in his song, surely he would know the end, if ever it were to be written. She shook her curls and smiled softly, still puzzling over the unfinished story.

"Someone has to know what happened to them. Will you tell me the end, if you hear it? And will you sing me another song? Please."

~*~

Garstan and Garmund stirred inside the Hall. The latter was eager for the day to begin, already anticipating games with Cnebba once chores were finished. But Garstan feared the new day, not knowing how to behave to Linduial after their scene the evening before. He knew, after a night's rest, that he had most likely overreacted and caused her unnecessary discomfort. He hoped that Linduial would understand.