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"Your logic does not fail, and I am grateful that you thought to spare my lady sister more upset. But my decision stands."
Degas had become impatient with Nain, though he tried to hide it. His father had never held grudges; why could he not be the same? He clenched his own fist, not of violence, but of disappointment in himself.
Father would not be proud of who I've become. Every bird comes home to nest, my boy, and every tree with reaching branches has its roots. Never forget from whence you came lest you float away like dust on the wind.
But Father, should a storm take the nest and tear it to shreds, what then? If the tree is struck by lightening, or falls in that same strom, what then? We cannot all be you, father. We cannot all be humble, and be gracious. I had to travel to learn, father, and you always said to learn. How can I help it that while I was gone, my nest was broken? How can I be you, Father, beloved by your people, by your family, and by your friend the king? I am not humble unless I am with humble people. I cannot find it in myself to be unflinchingly forgiving.
My home was taken from me, Father, when my parents were. All I have left is my sister. She is my root. How can I forgive Nain, Father, when the forgiveness has yet to come from the only one that matters? How can I forgive anyone that hurts her?
"There will be no need to ask again once Saeryn's forgiveness is sought. You will have mine as you have hers."
And with that, Degas left, appetite gone, past Nain and many others, out the door and into the street, and for some time he wandered, retracing his steps at the fair so long ago already, and he looked up to Meduseld and wondered, and he was not happy. The sun was bright already, just over the edge of the world, but it felt dark to him.
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