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Old 05-23-2015, 04:11 PM   #1378
Firefoot
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Firefoot has been trapped in the Barrow!
Scyld had thought it over several times and still could not figure out why he had volunteered to go ask questions of the nearby homesteaders. They knew him, of course, for Sorn had been their lord – a greedy and, as the years went on, increasingly mercurial lord. By association, Scyld was also rather poorly liked by most and had no desire to renew his acquaintance with them. Furthermore, he had hitherto been pointedly avoiding those who knew his real name and history. Now he had willingly offered to do just the opposite and seek them out. Why?

But of course he knew why. It was her, and now that he had given her his word, he felt that he must follow through somehow. He could, he supposed, lie, and say he had found nothing out, but she would ask questions, and the first lie would beget more, and part of him was tired of lying. No, that was only justification: he did not want to let her down. Dangerous emotion, that: putting her thoughts of him above his own self-interest.

He sighed. There was one man he would not mind going to talk to; he would start there. Cynered: he lived perhaps five miles up the road. They had known each other as children, and though Scyld’s position had naturally put distance between them, Scyld thought Cynered’s emotion toward him ran closer to wary pity than to outright mislike.

So he borrowed a horse one afternoon to ride out and pay Cynered a visit. So preoccupied was he that he forgot even to heckle Léof, as was his habit.

As he came up the road he found Cynered mending a fence out in front of his cottage. He put on the most pleasant expression he could conjure and greeted Cynered as he rode up.

“Scyld!” he exclaimed, looking surprised. “I thought you’d left these parts.”

He had gone as Nydfara for so long now that hearing his right name startled him, but he kept his features carefully schooled. Dismounting from his horse, he answered, “I did, for a time.”

“I’m surprised to see you back, truthfully,” said Cynered. Scyld could not read his expression.

“I heard about the new Eorl,” said Scyld, “and wanted to see what he had done with the place.”

“Well, there’s a change for the better if ever I saw one.”

“Indeed,” said Scyld. “Though I heard it’s been a bit of work for them, getting the new hall set up.”

Cynered grunted. “You might say that. Didn’t take long after word got out that Sorn was dead, some fool went and burned the whole place to the ground. Wasteful, I say. Not that I was sorry to see him go, but we might have dismantled the place rather than destroyed it. Put the furnishings and tools to good use, given them to those as needed them.” He shrugged. “But perhaps you know more about it than I do – you were with Sorn, and it sounds as though you’ve been at the new hall as well.”

“I left his employ shortly before he died,” said Scyld. This was true enough, after a fashion.

“Then I guess you don’t know much about the kidnapping rumors that were flying around Sorn’s death, either?” asked Cynered. Scyld could not tell whether he was looking for gossip or trying to imply something further, but either way this conversation was rapidly turning a direction he did not want it to go. What had he expected? His departure from the area was timed too suspiciously for him to be free of obvious guesses by those who lived nearby.

“No,” said Scyld, with a feigned apologetic note. “Sorn had gone rather mad and desperate. He had several plans, all of which seemed likely to end badly for me, hence why I left.”

“Ah, well. I was at Edoras at the time for a horse fair and missed the whole ordeal. That reminds me though – I have something for you, up at the house.”

Scyld followed him curiously, despite his misgivings, having no idea what he would find. Inside the cottage, Cynered reached up to a shelf and pulled down a letter. “I’m not rightly sure why I’ve kept it; it’s sat here for months now, and I had no reason to think you’d be back for me to give it to you. I guess it seemed wrong to throw it out.” He handed it to Scyld. The missive was blank on the outside, sealed with an unmarked blob of wax.

Cynered seemed a little uncertain how to proceed, but plunged on, as if sensing Scyld’s next question. “It’s from your brother, Bedric. I ran into him by chance at that horse fair. It was, ah, a bit of a shock for him to hear news of you. Just as it seems a bit of a shock for you to hear from him,” he added. Scyld’s normally guarded expression had come undone. What could his brother, whom he had not heard from in years – ten? Twelve? – want from him now?

“I’m sure he explains it in the letter,” finished Cynered.

“I’m sure,” muttered Scyld, finding his voice again.

“I stayed in Edoras for a couple weeks, visiting family. I meant to bring you the letter as soon as I got back, but when I did Sorn was dead and you were gone.” Back to that topic. This entire visit had been a mistake, doing nothing but stirring up things best left in the past.

He forced a smile. “Yes, well, thank you for keeping this for me. I’ll be on my way now, I think.”

“Of course. Good luck,” said Cynered.

~*~*~*~

When Scyld had first been sold into Sorn’s service, his family had not lived far away – a few miles: close enough for him to see them occasionally, and though Sorn had not liked it much, he allowed it. After a couple of years, though, Scyld’s father had died, and with the family fortune in shambles, the land was sold and his mother and siblings had gone to live with his mother’s kinfolk. For a while there were letters, and then these too had stopped. He had spent much of his fifteenth and sixteenth years of life waiting for the letters that never came, until finally, slowly, without really realizing it had happened, he gave up. He did not even know for certain where they had gone; perhaps he could have figured it out, had he tried, but anger toward the family that had abandoned him had kept him from ever trying to seek them out.

Scyld rode about a mile up the road and then stopped. He dismounted shakily and pulled the letter out of his pocket with trembling hands. Did he even want to read it? After all this time, did his brother deserve a chance to explain and excuse himself? Bedric had once been his favorite sibling, less than two years his elder. Curiosity along with this consideration eventually won out, and he broke the wax seal and read:

Brother,

I cannot think how you must be feeling to read this letter, after so many years of not hearing from any of us. To you, I can understand if there is no excuse that will lead you to forgive us, but I beg you to think on what I have to say.

We thought you were dead. Sorn wrote to us, shortly after we moved away, that you had died of an illness, and urged us not to come as there were others in the household who had also taken ill. We mourned you, as we had mourned father – but forgive us, if we were too quick to trust Sorn because we so much wanted to move on. Sorn wished no other payment towards father’s debt to him. Knowing him to be a man of unstable mood, we did not wish him to change his mind. I see now that your death must have been a ploy of Sorn’s, to cut the ties between us and you. I am so sorry.

I will not push you, but please know you are welcome here. An easy day’s journey along the road west from Edoras will bring you close. Ask for me; I am the blacksmith in these parts. I am overjoyed to have heard news of you and hope you will come. I am sure Aelfred, Adney, and Gytha would share my eagerness to see you and have you meet their families. Mother would be glad of it as well, were she still alive. It is right that you should know, even if I do not hear back from you: she died three years ago. I hope you will come, though: please think on it.

Your brother,

Bedric


Scyld stood there numbly for what seemed a long time, thoughts and emotions churning furiously and unproductively. Rage – at Sorn and at his family. Grief – for years lost, for a family he no longer knew. Wariness, disbelief – could his brother be telling the truth? Confusion – did he want to meet his family again?

Gradually, however, his rational mind began to reassert itself. His fingers were growing stiff with cold. He remounted his horse and began to ride slowly back to Scarburg. He purposefully did not rush, giving himself time to master himself. As he had long since learned to do, he set aside his emotions, and as he did so another worrying problem rose to the forefront of his mind. Cynered had come far too close to the truth of Scyld’s involvement with the kidnapping with his seemingly casual questions. As long as his identity stayed hidden, he was safe. He supposed it was a small wonder in itself that word had not gotten round to the nearby farmers that he was here; some had come, now and then, to the hall for assorted reasons. Now that he had made himself known, though, there could be talk. What if one of them came to the hall looking for him? I’m looking for Scyld, one might say. There is no Scyld here, he would be told. But eventually the whole story would come out, and he would look all the worse for having hidden it.

As the Meadhall came into view, Scyld knew he could not stay. He would leave, and soon. It was not to his brother that he would go – not yet, anyway. The letter, he would have to consider, and he would have plenty of time for it on his trip. Truthfully, he did not know where Dol Amroth was, or how best to get there, but there, he knew, was the one person who might clear his name. Then, perhaps, Sorn’s looming shadow over his life might recede, and he might move forward.

Then, perhaps, he might come back without fear to this place that, despite everything, was the only home he’d ever had.

~*~*~*~

Scyld and Rowenna

Rowenna was kneeling on the mead hall floor, scrubbing at a difficult stain of grease from one of the Eorlingas' dropped legs of hind. That Scyrr, like as not, the hog.

A shadow came and placed itself over her work. She scowled. Who has the nerve? She looked up. Her heart fluttered. Nydfara, with that typical sardonic expression on his face.

He had avoided her as long as he could. Having made up his mind to leave, he was now dragging his feet to do so. He was unwilling to simply disappear, but he also did not know how to say farewell. So hid his discomfort with a jest, as was his wont: "Have you been kept too busy scrubbing floors to look into our dead body?"

She let the scrub brush lay, shook out her hands, and rubbed the aches out of them, kneeling still. "I have been to the smoke house. As I foretold, there is little to be seen after we scoured it so. I have not had a chance to ask Eodwine anything. I do not think there is much to be learned from him. What of you?"

"I fear that I have fared little better," said Scyld. "I learned a few things from a man I once knew, but none of them helpful to our search. He could only tell me that the old hall was burnt shortly after Sorn's death. I think he knew nothing of a body - though truthfully, I am not sure he would have told me even if he did."

The floor was hard and Rowenna's knees felt its unevenness. She rose to her feet, thinking on Nydfara's words. "So we have a dead end." She sighed. "I do not like dead ends." But she did like a good mystery, and there was yet one unsolved, that of Nydfara himself; his face gave away nothing. Almost nothing. There was a difference in his countenance, some kind of brightness in the eyes. Then she remembered his words. "Other news?"

Scyld nodded slowly. When Rowenna had stood up, a wisp of hair had fallen across her face, and Scyld felt the sudden urge to reach out and brush it to the side. Would she slap him for such a gesture? Laugh at him? You are leaving, remember? he told himself sternly, and his hand remained at his side. "Yes - news that calls for my attention elsewhere. I must take my leave of Scarburg for a time."

A sick feeling like dread clutched at her. Gone for a time? How long? Weeks? Months? Surely not years? Why did he have this kind of hold on her? It was unnerving. These thoughts rushed by in a moment. She allowed only a lowering of the brow, quickly replaced by placid expression.

"Oh? Where to?" She sat back against the nearest table, crossed her arms over her midriff, and gave him a look of relaxed curiosity.

"The where is not so important as the people I hope to find there," he said, sidestepping the question. "First, there is someone I must see to make the rest of my secrets safe to tell." He smirked. "This one among them. After that - I have not yet made up my mind. I was given a letter from one of my brothers. He wishes me to come and meet his family - as if after over ten years of hearing nothing from him, there is any tie left between us to save." He had let more bitterness creep into his voice than he intended, and regretted mentioning his brother's letter. It was too fresh a wound, it seemed, to hide behind a veneer of disinterest.

How unlike him to show raw feeling. She had trained herself to use such things to her gain. Instead, she felt his wound inside herself, as if it were her own; they two were, surely, much alike. To her chagrin, her voice came out soft through a constricted throat.

"I hope you find it worth saving." She cleared her throat. Let me come with you. Leave me at once. I do not wish to be so moved. Let me see more. "When will you be leaving?"

The compassion in her voice startled him, and in that instant he nearly abandoned his plan. Stay. Tell her everything. Then he thought of all the people who might bear witness against him if his lies started crumbling apart, and he steeled himself. It was for the best.

"Tomorrow, or the day after. As soon as I can gather the things I need." I will miss you. But the words lodged in his throat.

I will miss you. The thought lodged itself in her mind, and she knew it was so; but there was no way she could bring herself to say it. Will you miss me? Maybe not: sometimes, after having been away, and he found her before him of a sudden, he looked surprised, as if she had never figured into this thoughts while away; but it seemed that neither could keep the other out of their thought when nearby. It was almost like the Elves, or so she had heared, as if their minds were more spacious than their heads, and their thought mingled like two breezes of wind converging from different places. It was a silly thought, doubtless. I need as much of you as can be granted until you leave. I need you gone as soon as may be so I can have peace of mind.

"Can I help you get ready?"

"I have few belongings, so packing will be no great trouble - but if you would help me to gather food for my travels, I would thank you. Enough for many days: as much as I can carry and as can be spared," he said. It was no use trying to hide that he intended to travel quite far: the alternative would mean having to spend much more time foraging for food, and he was no great woodsman.

She nodded. It would be a long journey, then. "I will do what I can."

Last edited by Firefoot; 06-03-2015 at 06:10 PM.
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