[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn sat down in the courtyard, taking a short break from her errands, and she let herself relax enough to enjoy the warm sun and the mouth-watering scent of baking bread. She needed still to speak with Modtryth, but it was a matter of no hurry. Trystan had gained a little weight, Saeryn liked to hope, in his stay, but he was still in need of new clothing; Saeryn hoped that, with Modtryth's tactful and easy-going help, she could nudge the young man into the direction of looking more upstanding and less like a rapscallion. She'd grown used to his presence and his roguish chivalry, and she smiled to see it, and frowned to see Eodwine's obvious distaste for the theatrics. She thought of Degas now, whenever she thought of Eodwine.

She closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sun, a daisy sprouting, seeking the light. She wanted Degas to come back. She'd been unable to find him that day with Nain, a month ago already. He'd slipped into her room late that night and awoken her.

"Saera, I'm going to leave."

"What?"

"Saer," he repeated, pushing her hair away from her eyes, sitting next to her on her bed. "Saer, I cannot stay here."

"Of course you can, Degas." She sat up, scooting back, wrapping her arms around her knees and smoothing her nightdress. She was sleepy; he wasn't making sense. Why did he always choose the middle of the night? It was the same when they were children; always so late. "You are my guest. You are my brother. Of course you can stay here."

"Saera, what do I do? I do not earn my keep here, and Eodwine will not accept a coin in recompense for my stay because I am your brother. Even if he would, I have very little to give to him. The days grow long, Saer, when there is no work to fill them."

She sighed and looked at him, breathing out through her nose. "You told her you would wait."

He swallowed hard. "I know."

"Where will you go?"

"Home. Our childhood home." he clarified. "Fenrir and I have words to exchange... our last visit was less than friendly, if you remember the break in my nose."

Saeryn ran a finger along the bridge of it, noting where Bethberry had tended to the disconcerting shift of flesh. "Why return?"

"Because it is my home. Because what do I have, if I have no roots? I study in Minas Tirith and I play for every man woman and child between the cold streets and King Elessar's courts, and I live as a guest in his halls. Because I am a guest. I stay in Eodwine's Hall as a guest as well, with no work to qualify me. What do I have here, Saeri?"

"You have me." He took her hand.

"You have Eodwine."

"He has the memory of his wife. You have Linduial."

"She has her duty. She has her life. You have the young scapegrace Trystan to brush your hand with his lips as you giggle."

"Degas..."

"Do you think I did not see it? Do you hold Eodwine's past against him? No answer... Saeri, he is a man. He did not spring into existence the day that you met him in Bethberry's Inn. Did it hurt to remember it?"

"Degas... yes. Yes, brother, it hurt. I'd denied myself thoughts, but still I'd wondered at what it would be. He is my friend, Degas, but I began to wonder if it could be more, and what would happen if there was more, and whose nod would I seek should he care to look my way, and I let myself wonder as I worked, because what else had I to think of except the place I once called home, the place that I can't return to, or the dreams of our parents?"

"You dream of them?"

"Every night, Degas. They call me. And Caeli too, since I learned... There are paths and it is dusk, and the grass is trampled and there are birds crying intrusion, and their voices say to follow, and I wake in a sweat and I want to cry. Degas, since I learned, I have not wept for our family. I cannot find the tears. I would rather not dwell on the past... so I let myself wonder lazily about the future."

"And the past found you."

"Yes."

"My past is my future. Yours is as well, though you do not want it to be. I have to go home, Saeryn. What am I in this world? A younger son of a lesser known house. Our parents were loved by all. Saeryn, King Eomer knew our father, and loved him. Without Mother and Father, though, Saer, what do I have? I have that which I claim from Fenrir. But to claim my birthright, whatever it might be, I cannot run away. I cannot spend my days lazily writing, locked in my room, or flirting with tavern wenches."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"But..."

"I know, Saer."

"It has been four years."

He cupped her cheek. "You do not want me here. I would lessen the spirit of the day. It does not need me."

"But I do..."

"Our birthday remains ours, even if we are apart."

"We haven't celebrated our birthday together--"

"Not since before I left."

"You cannot leave after? Or come back more quickly than you will?"

He hung his head and did not answer.

"Lady Saeryn?" She startled a little, her attention removed from that night, and sought for the voice in the yard. It was Modtryth.

"Yes, Modtryth?"

"Have you seen the children? The time is nearing for lunch and they are sure to be hungry."

"I cannot say that I have, though I meant to speak with you. May I have a word as we look? I would ask a favor, if you would entertain me the question. What think you of our Trystan?"