[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas found himself in a dark space and a small fire lit his strong features, bronzing his light skin and fading the few freckles, the remnants of his youth, into obscurity. The dancing light made his dark red hair show golden at times, darkest black at others. It was the bright of late morning out of doors, yet the shutters were closed and only sickly cracks of light fought their way through.

He sat back in an old wooden chair, feeling the carved knot work dig into his left shoulder. He shifted, spilling a little of his wine. He clenched his jaw a little and wiped his hand on his breeches. The small wooden goblet he held had been emptied a few times since he'd walked away from Fenrir.

"Boy, you'll want to stop this foolery."

Degas glared and his eyes burned hot with angry tears. The old man had greeted him silently, opening the door and stepping to the side, letting Degas come past him. He'd poured wine into his own cup and handed it to the young man now sitting, head in hands, in the chair his son had made him long before Degas was born. He'd silently poured more wine as the cup emptied, waiting.

And his first words to Degas were those. Degas felt his cheeks flush in shame.

"Faesten, how? What do I do?" The old man had not heard such desperation since the red head was barely into manhood, trying to find the will to leave a home in which he could not stay. He'd listened then, just as he did now, hearing everything that was not said.

"It would be a good beginning to set the cup down." Degas laughed hollowly, but he did it, looking into the shadows toward the aged voice.

He saw the heavy outline of a cloak. He hadn't been so frail the last time, had he? It had been several years... The fire was warm... or was it the wine? The old gravel of his voice was still strong, his hands were still calloused. But he seemed thinner.

"You've grown." the old man commented wryly, seeming, as always, to read Degas's mind.

"Were you always so small?"

"Watch your tone, boy. I'll lay you flat as I did so long ago when you thought to play Riders and Orcs with yourself as orc and my wife's fresh pies as plunder."

Degas laughed legitimately this time, though his tone remained distant.

"Faesten, he'll deny me my inheritance. You know as well as I that he has the means."

"Does it mean so much to you, money and land? I thought you were to be a travelling musician. I thought you were to wander happily, all your days, paying room and board with news and song from faraway lands. Has the romance left it? Have you felt the cold bite of wind alone on distant roads with no warmth in sight and no thought for comfort but far away dream?"

"She's a princess."

"A she. A princess. The queen's lady cousin?"

"You know too much."

"Old ears hear clearly when folks forget them."

"I cannot hope to woo her with no copper to my name. How can a man raise a family with no inheritance when all that he knows how to do, all that he's ever done, is no life for any lady, but most especially not one such as her.

Linduial, Linduial,
Your skin so Elven fair,
Linduial, Linduial,
With starlight in your hair,

You travel long, you travel far
Across so many lands
And with you, though you know it not,
My heart... 'tis in your hands..."

Faesten looked at Degas with pity, stepping forth from the shadows, placing an old, gnarled hand upon his shoulder. Degas placed his hand over it and wept for a time, and they were silent.

After a time, Faesten spoke again. "Degas, you have been as a son to me for many years. A choice is before you: will you make it?"

Degas met his friend's eyes levelly, and though his hands shook, and his voice with it, he spoke honestly. "I will not sacrifice my sister's love for my own. She will not return home by me. Though I should have nothing save my body, I would not ask her, nor even ever mention it, to return to Fenrir. I will bid my farewell to the lady in my dreams, the white lady of my heart, and I will play for her when she is wed to a better man, if she will consent to have me as her humble musician."

"You do what you think is right."

Degas looked startled. He stood now, swaying only slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean only that you can do only so many things before you must let things to the winds and hope the storm dies down quick, boy. Did you think, mayhap, that the lady may have a thought of her own on the matter? Did you think, mayhap, that you ought to share with your sister your thoughts? I doubt it much, but that is your own business. You have chosen, and it is a noble choice, but its rightness may only be seen in time."

"Faesten, I would have you tell me what to do. I cannot do it alone."

"No. You cannot."