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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."
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